#cogs and corsets

[worldwidewebzy]

Makeshift Avigall redesign ref

[just-some-sillies]

It is very important that I acquire a corset. For fashion reasons

[capslocked]

KINKVEMBER DAY: 4

[prompt: roleplay] male reader x kang hyewon 8k words

“I need you,” Hyewon says in the uneasy dark of a hotel room, with two urgent fistfuls of your shirt, “need you to do to me all the things my husband never will.” “Yeah, I know,” you tell her, “you said that,” and her eyebrows move in all the wrong directions, “I’m just wondering if, you know, maybe we should give him a little more credit.”

-

Here’s the truth:

Hyewon doesn’t believe in leaving evidence behind and you don't find it particularly productive to doubt her; you’ve been talking in code for years. Parts and pieces of yourselves reduced down and bottled into set phrases that, to anyone else, would be totally incomprehensible.

"i've been thinking," she texts you, which you've come to understand means she's already made up her mind, "maybe we should do that thing we were talking about. tonight."

(You're not always so fast on the uptake.)

You send two back two texts, both of which ask "which thing?" because the hallway from the breakroom to your desk has poor reception and it never lets you send just one.

Then, right after you cross the threshold between signal-drowning-concrete and the glitzy glass-walled arboretum they've built to make you feel like you're not a total cog in their corporate machine, your phone pings the receipt of Hyewon's reply: a picture - her laptop, propped up on your coffee table with its screen angled for perusal, of a booking site that's filtered to show results for their 'king bed & view' room at a midrange hotel a forty-five-minute ride from your apartment.

"not really doing much narrowing down here hyewon."

She replies to you - her text bubble appearing over another couple still images, of herself in the vanity mirror as she curls her hair around her finger and holds this little black slip of a dress over her shoulder, black lacy lingerie in tow, the whole nine - with:

"i'm feeling kinda adventurous."

-

Five o’clock rolls around but you never really do figure it out. You spend the last three hours at work deciding which kink of hers (oh, does she have a few) this is all in service to.

There's nothing overtly sexual about her pics in the first place - not more than usual anyway, more showing off her curves and cut jaw than showcasing anything for her 'adventurous' intent. So that can't be the tell - you'd seen her in a corset once (you can't unsee it) and the angle of her hips to the mirror makes you think that if she was planning on pulling on a  pair of crotchless panties then she probably would've found her thigh high stockings, too.

You try and think of what the two of you had even talked about when discussing these little scenes - how many times you'd ended up 'in the mood' during or after such a meeting of the minds, how it'd snowballed from there, a whole list of filthy what-ifs that she'd probably put more thought into than you ever have - but you draw a total blank. It could be any of a number of things.

Until,

"i left you instructions on the kitchen island," reads a text on your phone which you definitely don’t check while you’re driving -

And then it hits you.

"ah."

"yeah, 'ah'," she replies.

-

A quarter past seven at the hotel bar is way too early for any real promiscuous activity, but then again, you're here playing at pretend and half the fun of games like this is in the setup.

Meet me at the bar, your instructions read, introduce yourself, and play it by ear.

There's some couples at the other end, some friends downing shots by the round, people musing over their aperitifs, and a woman sipping alone at the bar - Hyewon, appearing to you from the back first:

The pointed edges of her shoulders narrow out over this tiny cocktail dress that somehow covers less of her than if it weren't there at all, skin tight, accentuating even her softest curves. She has her hair fixed a particular way - teased enough to flip at the ends but still a single sweep down her shoulders, pulled together softly by a ribbon in the back, tied like a fantasy, allowing a wispy strand to fall to her face - glossy and dark and glowing to this rich, deep mahogany where it's cast in the lamplight.

The line of her throat, of her chest. Where her hips meet her waist in a rounding flare. The effort and beauty she's gone to, for you - that she puts in every day just because she knows it gets your attention, can do more than turn a head or two; Hyewon's appearance is almost indifferent of you, only coincidental, but she puts on a damn good act.

(You look a lot more worn in comparison: jacket thrown over dress shirt and khakis, tie loose at the neck. Standard office attire with just a step-outside-regulation. Disheveled.)

A drink, you suppose - approaching the bar to try and catch the bartender's attention to order a single malt.

But if Hyewon's been waiting long, she doesn't complain when you pull into the stool beside her and sit for a long moment.

"Do you mind if I join you?" you say over a pair of politely folded hands - and that's generally where her 'instructions' end.

The look she fixes you with is just this unashamed smoldering, her body language this contradictory kind of lazy - cool, like her night was going exactly the way she planned but she still had places to be.

"It depends," she replies, one slender finger curled around the stem of her martini glass - which historically, is a drink she hates. "Who's asking?"

"Just me," you offer, letting the gesture and your tone leave it up to her. And then slowly, perhaps awkwardly: "ostensibly a complete and utter stranger who knows a gorgeous woman when he sees one - and who could never pass up a chance to see how the rest of her is."

"Smooth."

"I guess it is, considering you didn't immediately run for the exit."

Hyewon nearly snorts.

"Hard not to." She tilts her head back at you, assessing. Her cheeks are rosy pink. "A handsome thing like you doesn't usually buy themself a girl's time with flattery -"

"Buy your time or your drinks?" you tease, and you can tell she wants to roll her eyes - but she keeps them carefully lowered. Eyelashes dipping down like blackened fans.

Hyewon shifts slightly, resting her chin onto the heel of her wrist like she's leaning against an imaginary windowpane and tipping her face a little sideways. It makes you smile. "One gets the other, if you catch my meaning."

Maybe it takes you a little too long to lift your gaze off her lips to find her eyes, or off the sweeping curve of the hemline sitting high across her long legs, but she watches you for just a breath. It's a more telling moment that she pretends she doesn't know you.

"You can look at me if you like," and then without further preamble, she introduces herself with a slight tilt of the head and an expectant expression: "call me Hyewon."

You figure that if you've gotta say one word to get the ball rolling you want to say her name, and as a little revenge for forcing you to think on this scene and think on what to say, what your character would say, how exactly she wanted you to go about 'meeting' her in a hotel bar, how her fucking scenario's been building up in her head for god-knows-how-long (even though, in the scheme of the two of you and your relationship, it’s nowhere close to being the most demanding sex you've had), you reply simply with:

"Pretty."

It's satisfying, how she hesitates - pausing a little longer on your face to gauge exactly what you meant. Studying. But the next beat of your heart - or hers - is effortless, easy.

"I know. That's what my husband calls me."

"Husband?" You keep yourself from raising an eyebrow. "And I don't suppose I'm also... married?"

"Different day, different you."

"Meaning I have a wife or a mistress of my own," and you flick your wrist at the barkeep for a top-up of what's in front of Hyewon. "You're telling me I'm the kind of man who'd only settle for two."

It doesn't sound quite right, though Hyewon picks up on it. Doesn't let on. "Aren't men like you always? Charming to a fault, but always voracious - insatiable, especially with women like me."

"Women like you."

"Married women. Unavailable," she simpers, and in a practiced little motion, draws her hand out to where you can see it properly, this sparkle on her fourth finger that catches the lowlight of the bar. The diamond looks real - not that you'd actually know - and your stomach flexes up mid-somersault thinking about the financial impropriety for what amounts to a gag. A practical joke. Hyewon the comedian.

Still, you go with it and take her hand in yours, admiring. "What a pity." The glint off its faceted surface - Hyewon's watchful as she allows it.

"Isn't it," she agrees.

The more unnerving thing - besides how composed Hyewon can make herself be - is how the narrative quickly becomes a whole hell of a lot clearer with the context of marriage in play. She's mentioned it before: the infidelity thing, the way it leads to the raunchiest, filthiest bits she'll dare to explore. In some ways, her desire for the untouchable makes a lot more sense -

And maybe that's what had been nagging at your mind since she brought up the idea of playing the part: you always end up kissing in that stupid 'caught up' sort of way. With an intensity that's hard to beat. Even though you wouldn't ever cheat on her. Not in a million years. You'd watch her leave before doing anything like that.

But it's thrilling, almost, and even more thrilling that this isn't entirely improvisation: how well the two of you might actually play this off, as two total strangers to this illusory little roleplay that you'd normally say was your very last interest.

"But you know there's something I've come to appreciate about married men," Hyewon continues, her voice in this conspiratorial sort of hushed.

You blink, drawing her out.

"They know how to tie a knot."

There's the flirty wink, an upward flick of the chin that draws your eye to the span of her chest. To her body in that skin-hugging dress and your fingers entangled in hers - the gentle bump and shift of the bodies behind her, moving between the tables - Hyewon a queen of circumstance, playing to the moment as it bends; as her lips part in a pleased smile, red and smooth, almost innocent, and you can't help but imagine tasting her on your tongue, the force that'd take for her to yield when you finally got your hands in her hair.

(What a character, honestly.)

"Tell me something," you say, "why would a married woman, this pretty little thing like you, be all alone in a place like this - without her charming husband."

Hyewon's smile curls at the edges like smoke. "I never said he was charming."

You raise an eyebrow. "Good-looking, then."

"Never said as much either."

“Why are you with someone you find neither attractive nor charming?”

Hyewon makes a face, slightly pitied. “If that Isn’t what I’m asking myself everyday.”

"Hm." You narrow your eyes into something more quizzical than suggestive. It works on her anyway. "That doesn't feel too much like it's in character, Hyewon."

She shrugs, but it's that coy kind of shrug. She thinks you'll let her off easy - you usually do. All considered, she's the type who thrives off the chase and, as of today, so do you.

"But he is cute." Her expression is just this side of sweet, as she takes a dainty sip of her drink. Like the taste doesn’t bother her, like she isn't pretending she doesn't hate it with every fiber of her being. Like this is easy. "And maybe -" she quirks an eyebrow at you, withholding a smirk. "-you're right. Maybe, I was looking for someone cuter to fill the bill. And luck would have it, here he is."

So - apparently - her character doesn’t mind a little light infidelity.

Hyewon takes in the vague sense that the message wasn’t as clear as she might have liked, her forehead scrunching as she tries to convey - in a way that would communicate even to an airhead - some realization to play your part.

"Maybe it's the wrong question,” you start over, taking it from somewhere near the top, “what are you doing here, with me?"

That's when Hyewon graces you with one of the soft, slow kind of smiles: the kind that manages both an air of 'you dimwit' and 'good question'. Her fingertips barely graze yours but it's noticeably electric. Just enough to feel your pulse fluttering.

(You don't care that none of it’s real - Hyewon looks to you through thick eyelashes like a goddess of temptation and sin - and it makes something wicked coil up warm at the pit of your gut. A curious thrill and a recklessness that you have to admit feels a little nice - being the man trying to talk this woman into bed. The challenge and the buildup, the want to work for it. It's new. It's fresh. Lo-and-behold, it's kinda hot.)

When you catch her stare, she fidgets. So slightly, so briefly, your chest is on fire and you're barely into the pages of her plans, of this night ahead.

"Wish fulfillment, let's say," and that is no less true. "See it’s my husband."

"Mhmm."

"He respects me too much to do the things I'm going to ask you to do."

"Like?" you continue to prod.

Hyewon lets out the tiniest shiver of a sigh, like a trickle of cold water down the length of her spine. "Take a good guess."

You finish the rest of Hyewon's martini, slow. Savoring the warmth and bitterness sliding down the back of your throat. The night's young, sure - and if you're supposed to be spending it all wrapped around Hyewon's finger. This means you can take your time.

"Show me your room?" you propose, gesturing to the empty glass.

"I thought you'd never ask."

At your offering, she stands up and throws on her coat - long, double-breasted, chic - but only really just off her shoulders to have the hem hit her legs mid-thigh. One of her many personal quirks. Hyewon knows how to move like there aren't two eyes staring at her wherever she goes: not the awkward side-to-side of a girl who wasn't made to wear heels - a loping gait - nor the assured click, click of the taller kind that totter like it's all they've got going for them.

Something totally different: a little careless and a little haughty and an assurance of the highest confidence.

She winds an arm round yours like they do in movies, this parody of a leading lady - Hyewon not a seductress as much as she is someone who'll look the part just to convince you otherwise. There is a pretty big discrepancy, you find, between her bravado and her smile, her figure and her artistry - you couldn't act if you wanted to; meanwhile, she does whatever she damn well pleases. And somehow that doesn't even begin to cover the things that turn her on.

The two of you make for the stairs, winding up floor after floor until it's perfectly quiet, perfectly out of sight - hidden away from prying eyes and ears.

The silence of an empty hotel stairwell is thick - Hyewon's hand comes off the railing, as she takes to the wall and turns to face you. It's a gentle tug at the tie loose around your neck, barely any give before you're already there, holding her by the hips.

"Might've gotten us lost there," you whisper, as her finger plays at your chest and finds its way round the collar of your shirt. Your top button is already undone by the time you notice she's not fond of it. "The elevators would've gotten us where we're headed faster."

"Don't worry." She hums, leaning in close - like a magnet, like gravity. "You're getting the scenic route."

"Anything to stall the inevitable," you tease, but it isn't a thread she seems interested in developing.

"Something like that."

Hyewon shifts her weight back onto her right foot, her skirt riding up just barely. The dip between her inner thighs and the smooth curve of her leg is open and bare to your sight, her dark stockings like an unspoken challenge: the panties, lacy, loose, no crotch.

And it gets... indecent, the way your lips connect, how you realize half-way into that kiss, she's still smiling. It isn't any one way that does it; maybe it's the clever use of her tongue, or that particular position you've coaxed her up against the stairwell wall that makes it seem like Hyewon can't be any more in danger - it's too much to handle and your mouth goes slack on the reflex of an apology; her hand has a hold on you by the jaw and it won't budge.

"My husband," she murmurs into you, the trace of the words ghosting into the breath between the both of you. "Never lets me."

"What," you rasp, barely recognizing your own voice, your hand heavy on her side - the very real fear that you might tip over a banister because Hyewon's got her heel half-way into the back of your calf and any less bracing would bring you down. Your thoughts are a fog, with her cheek in one hand and your knee already up between her thighs.

"His wife," she almost swallows down, kisses turning chaste because maybe it's just easier to gently peck out her intentions, how she looks to you with dark eyes, heavy-lidded and wanting, a thumb trailing down the plane of your cheek. It'd feel like pity if you weren't thinking exactly the same.

You try to finish it for her:

"She likes it rough."

"No." Her nose traces yours before she connects you again - gentle and slow, and a shudder rolls all down the expanse of her shoulders; you think you have it about right. Until she makes the slightest adjustment and her grip in your hair turns agonizing, perfect and burning on the edge of too tight - too much. You are straining against the wall of a hotel hallway and she's saying, "not rough."

She kisses you. Hard. Until you gasp for the stolen air in her lungs.

"Filthy," she manages against the heat and sting at the side of her cheek.

(Damn.)

Your voice has gone and lodged itself firmly somewhere between her lungs - but there's something that says she knows. That you've got it in you, the brimming potential that might just say everything you ever wanted but couldn't figure the right way to put it.

It's the tone of her voice or the spark in her eyes, but one moment into the next - you're caught in this pull - like gravity's increasing tenfold at her will; her heartbeat's so strong you swear you feel it against your ribs as she's demanding:

"Messy. Dirty. A little uninhibited," and the obvious thrill of that must flare up like lightning under her skin - the way it makes her moan, soft and breathless: "fuck me like my husband doesn't."

She’s not even waiting for the comfort of the room yet, which in hindsight is probably checking more of Hyewon's many boxes - it's the sex in public thing, the fear of discovery thing, the desire to have you ravish her out where anyone can come upon you sort of thing - the thought of which has your jaw go a little slack too. Her leg up is coiled up around your hip, your fingers tangled in her hair and sliding up the length of her thigh, until you're fucking kneading up her ass and drawing out that desperate whine in her.

"Fuck," she exhales into your shoulder - a hand on the metal bannister to brace against those little circles you start to rub inside her, pushing - slowly - one, two, three knuckles deep, testing - before drawing back, and plunging forward again. This ache, slow and purposeful, pressing just enough into her until there's a wet sort of friction that has your hand slick all down your wrist.

It never takes long, with your fingers on her clit, fingers inside her, a palm covering the moans out of her mouth -

She cums just like that.

Whining and broken and bent under you, and with an elbow hard against her ribcage to make the breaths come shallow.

"Stay quiet for me, sweetheart," you find yourself murmuring, as your teeth graze the shell of her ear - the short burst of hair and silky strands across the back of her neck; you're undoing the neat ribbon tied round the length of her hair and letting her waves settle on her shoulder in time for you to swallow down the sound of her sighs, the tension in her lips, and the frantic jolt when your fingers push through the wet, heat of her pussy again, merciless and quick. You have to be careful; she nearly bites your fucking tongue out.

"Can't." Her jaw's tight on it, the slight staccato to her breathing, murmuring and slightly dazed: "if we get caught, someone will see. Someone will notice."

Her next exhale is more shaky. "Anyone could see us like this," with just her toes curling and her stomach tensing on every second beat. Your grip leaves a bruise. "Please-"

"We're not supposed to be doing this at all, are we? If you've got a husband waiting somewhere?"

You hear yourself, and it sounds sorta degenerate, though in all the right ways, you figure, like something straight out of one of Hyewon's romance novels, the dirty, smutty ones that she swears up and down she simply reads for the plot, but the dazed, hazy kind of mood they get her worked up into suggest otherwise.

You trace the rough pad of your thumb over her pussy, this delicate, ghost of a touch. One you'd have to strain to even tell if it was there or not until she whines - eyes screwed shut like she doesn't mean to, just does. The sound of it bouncing around the stairwell.

And then, all this wet: her skirt's ridden all the way up to her stomach, damp and near-transparent with slick, and you can just imagine the puffy pink between her legs - between her stockings in the afterglow of an orgasm, spent and sensitive and sore and wanting for more. Your eyes linger a little too long -

"I shouldn't let you," she manages, half a moan on it - one of her heels comes up the stair you're standing on and the way Hyewon clings onto you for balance says enough, but still, she demands, with all the strength her throat allows: "make it fast. You're lucky I let you see me like this at all -"

And she cuts off abruptly, looking at you.

(She'll play coy for a while longer. Which, Hyewon being Hyewon, will look like as much an effort as her sprawl out on the bed for you is.)

"The room," you say to her, harshly, "where is it."

"Four more floors."

-

Room 1014 as it turns out is like every other room you've ever been in, each one perhaps a little more identical than the last - except this one has Hyewon sitting in your lap while you get comfortable on the bed, and there's also the way she looks in the mirror above the headboard, the desperation in her stare, right back into the reflection.

"What all," she says, "do you want to do to me?"

This time - no explicit instructions - just an implication. You have to figure it out.

See, the image of her is like every fantasy rolled into one, wearing this thin black bra that has her breasts just about spilling over. They're amazing - the color and shape of her skin. Soft. Cradled between the cups like a godsend, and maybe that's why it drives her a little crazy how good you look biting down the ridge of her breast and flicking your eyes back up to catch her expression.

It has you feeling, if nothing else, a little ‘adventurous,’ too.

Her belly tenses on a heavy sigh and it's one hell of a thing to have Hyewon staring you down, like you're an animal or an idiot, with her eyes flashing and a thinly veiled anger in the purse of her lips. There's a thousand things she'd like to do to you - for you to do to her - but it's about the predicament: the silk necktie she'd pulled off you as you both stumbled through the door has ended up around her wrists, pinning her arms behind her back in a way that suggests a loss of control. Just the mere suggestion of a little playacting, but she's almost keening.

You feel the touch of her right calf keep rising - curving down your waist, hooked behind the small of your back - her thighs smooth, and a hot line along your sides.

"I should fuck that pretty mouth of yours," you say against the shell of her ear, because you know better than anyone, the very concept gets her wet. Uncomfortably so.

And she leans her head against your temple like she'd love it. You could be imagining the little whimper as she clenches up round nothing - until a growl escapes the back of her throat and she's saying -

"Is that how you're going to cum? With me on my knees and nothing else? Cover my pretty face? How you’ll completely ruin me?. You’re more creative than that."

“I don’t know that I am.”

Her hips move to find some friction where there isn't any until you give her some, pulling your cock out through your pants and feeling it brush, once, twice against the seam of her. Hot, and hard. Ready. And if she only tried a little, the angle was made perfectly to slot your head in, but neither of you move. She doesn't yield.

"Let me fuck myself on you," she suggests, strained, almost pleading. "Then perhaps I will."

You could take her like she is. Any which way. But this is about getting a particular reaction - one that'll leave her spent and trembling - and nothing like that will happen without a little bit of preparation and prelude. You want to watch her writhe for hours. Until she forgets she's playing a character at all, until she's panting your name and whimpering for release, her cheeks burning.

But at least it gets her writhing on you, the heat and press of her body as she leans in close, your eyes locking:

"Get your cock inside me-" the urgency in her voice. "-fuck me right now, this second-"

"Say it again."

"Fill me with your perfect cock." The words land right on your lips, frayed at the edges as the tether to her control slips another notch. "Push my thighs apart until you break me," Hyewon tells you - and then with her legs twisted up in the comforter, the creaking mattress and the sweat on the sheets: she rolls her hips like they're pleading for it.

"Pushy."

"Gentle's got no appeal for us."

"Apparently not," you reply - but then it's suddenly a lot easier, to slide one hand in Hyewon's hair, and grip at the knotted silk wrapped tight 'round her wrists to hold her. There's no hiding the subtle arching of her spine, how the pressure off her arms pulls her chest in or makes it all the more comfortable, she doesn't let on, she'll probably keep pretending she doesn't like this, that she hasn't always wanted -

You run your tongue over her collarbone and thrust up inside her, once - a warning that you're not giving in to her quite yet.

The smile that runs her lips is brittle. Like her patience isn't what it used to be - she makes a quiet little noise, pained. A flash of discomfort. But there's a moan and a curse out of her:

"Like that. Harder."

"What does harder mean?" you ask, with a deliberate repetition in motion, thrusting upward, forcing her hips to shift a few degrees further back - her knees clenching around the sheets as you're met with no give - Hyewon's resistance through a dark smile, and her grip slackened in her hands, despite you keeping a fist wound tight in the hair on the back of her head, tightening the other around her restraint.

Her throat flinches: this shudder.

She takes a couple heaving, open-mouthed breaths, before she has it in her to glare at you again.

"Harder-" The way her mouth shapes around the word gets the better of you - cute little cupid's bow in pink, full and swollen and pursed up as if in pain. Or desire. Or both, the way her head is tipped back, hair half undone - an idea is already coiling at the back of your mind. "-until I can't stand."

"Or talk?"

And when your hand loosens on her wrists, her posture slumps like it's relief, that you're finally going to move along in a direction she's getting some satisfaction from -

Hyewon shakes her head in a moment that's almost blissed.

"You," her voice breaks on the tail end, "fucking wish you could shut me up that easily -"

In a motion almost gentle, you twist the length of hair down around her, from her scalp to her jaw, and wrap it around a hand. "Let's see if you'll change your mind, shall we."

There's a sharp draw of air in past her lips, just one sound, not a word. No proper rebuttal. She bites down, teeth clicking.

So you pull.

And this isn't some revelation, that Hyewon's cunt is heaven. Slick and tight, the fit around your cock and the gasp escaping the base of her throat - that isn't new. You've been here countless times, fucked her past her breaking point, beyond what should reasonably satisfy her or satisfy you, but that still doesn't take away from this incredible, heady rush that pulses through your entire body. It never stops getting better, not inch-after-fucking-inch the way you're bottoming out inside Hyewon's body and feel how hard the rest of her muscles tense up in the contact, how her pussy tightens and quivers, and grips around the entirety of your cock, the briefest taste of pleasure and release before it's pulled back just out of her reach - overstimulated, until Hyewon cries out.

You expect, predict the fight, the whimpers that spill out of her mouth with every slap of your skin and the breathless way she begs, pleads, like she'd rather her pride take it from her than have your fingers tug her hair up, right out of her scalp, with your arm locked around her lower waist. With your cock pumping faster, faster and a pressure, hot and inescapable, right there - the friction building - the slippery-wet heat sliding along your shaft with every stroke until you bottom out and her next exhale is a sob.

A goddamn fucking sob and the warm gush of liquid down her thighs - all on you. You fingers are pressed into her ass, pulling onto you, steading her bounce - and Hyewon finds her breathing uneven, as you smear wet across the curve of her backside, rubbing circles into her lower back as you catch up on the rhythm she'd lost.

"This tight little cunt, huh," you tease, and she nods so desperately it seems like she might snap. Like she might cry again and this time for real, a drop of her eye color past the blush, streaking down her cheek. You have the wherewithal to remember your character, your blocking, your lines: "this is what your husband won't do? Won't fuck you on every piece of furniture until you're a ruined fucked-out mess? Doesn't have the decency to work over his little slutty-wife until she's passed out, dripping with cum?"

Hyewon's fingers curl up into two balls of white knuckles and she chokes on her reply. "He won't."

"Tell him. He has a hot and dirty little piece of ass right under his own roof-"

"You think," and the string of words trails off when you manage to grind in, at this angle that has her reeling, trembling at every shift and jerk in momentum. Your knuckles drag against her soft and giving curves, almost gripping at her in the attempt to hold her down on you. "-my husband isn't enough."

"Well you wanted me to fuck the domestic housewife out of you," you murmur, taking two greedy handfuls of the ass bouncing in your lap, rubbing your palms along her hips, up and around the shape of her abdomen and her ribcage like you'd map it, memorize it. She wants this, you know this: your palms come around and over and brush your thumbs against her rising gooseflesh - she's putty in your hands. "No strings attached, remember, a one night kind of thing-"

"My husband loves me."

"Then it seems-"

"He makes me cum with his hands alone."

Your jaw works tight - Hyewon's cunt feels as good wrapped around you as she says your cock feels making a mess of it.

"Tells me he'd die happy hearing me moan his name."

"Oh, because no matter where he goes," you say, fingers wrapping under and around the back of her neck, forcing her to look you in the eye, "no matter what, your sweet cunt's the only one his mouth is ever watering for, isn't that right-"

A blink, lashes thick and feathering down and over the pools of her pupils as you have a hold of her tight. 

You're having a hard time with this, and you want to give it to her, the toe-curling-crescendo that would see her cumming at your will, or worse, losing the plot completely and your entire setup falling away from the charade of characters you'd both conjured. But she looks at you like she's never loved anyone like she loves you, the naked, barefaced devotion, the tenderness - a quick breath, a second - and the game is suddenly something far more personal, a truth. It isn't exactly fair: how your heart stutters. How much her heartbeat makes your pulse flutter, the electrifying rush you get when you fuck roughly up into her tight, wet cunt and make her bite down on nothing in the throes another orgasm.

You barely have a second to think of something coherent, let alone an out before she kisses you. If that isn’t totally disarming. So you move her into the next, flipping her onto her stomach, and she does nothing to fight back: Hyewon just lies there - the side of her face plastered to the comforter - exhausted, and gives a willing, malleable moan at the contact where your hand digs into the shape of her upper thighs, spreading them out as her elbows struggle behind her back.

"Here, baby," you say, finally unwinding the silk knot between her wrists, "I'll have you like the little desperate fucktoy you really are."

There's the bite to her bottom lip, the whole five seconds it takes for her hands to spread out and twist her fingers tight in the bedspread, before she whines - full-throated - and rocks back onto her toes to arch her back.

(See, the thing: Hyewon likes being fucked within an inch of her life. On all fours and pleading for more.)

With your free hand, you reach around her to run over her inner thighs.

Hyewon brings her grip to the bottom of the bed frame, for purchase, or leverage, you don't know, and in one simple motion, you slip your cock back deep inside her pussy.

You curse under your breath.

Hyewon fucking collapses.

It's a dangerous combination, having her begging and you nearly fully clothed while she's wearing barely more than this thin strip of black silk around her waist and a stocking on one leg, but you can't help it - she looks good this way.

"Fuck," she spits out, voice lost when your hips find hers in this wet, sloppy crash of skin that gets louder, faster and more punishing on each beat. "Like that, oh my God-"

Her whimpering only gets worse - when you start only pulling out halfway, until she's gasping like she can't breathe. You think there isn't a more wonderful, more obscene, more gorgeous thing than Hyewon spread out in front of you - the curve of her spine defining each and every one of the lines, dips, and rises of her body - and you would thank God or some higher deity right about now.

It’s fuck and please and every other little pliant utterance of “fuck my brains out, use me, make me beg, I'm so turned on right now I'll let you fuck me anyway you want - harder, faster, I can do whatever, just show me how, make me, push and fuck me hard until I'm raw and aching - god - like this, let me cum, please, let me - keep fucking going, oh my god, please, like this, fuck, just like this-"

You do thank God, actually - there's mirrors everywhere in this room, and you can catch the circular swing of her tits every time you force a curse and a sigh out of her: the bared teeth and the effort to push herself back on her arms, bracing for every thrust, fighting and fumbling to keep her balance and to make sure you have to pound her into the mattress until her cries reach a pitch.

Then, the thing you'd learned she'd never ask for but oh-so-dearly-wanted - you open your palm and bring it down hard on her backside. The impact of your flesh to hers, a crack, a moan and her whole body flexes - and it's then you do it again: matching the hit to the visible red outline of your handprint. The third time, she hisses, biting into the bed sheets so as not to cry out.

"Right? This is what you want? To be fucked and used?"

She doesn't reply with words, because she may in fact be biting her teeth into the cotton threadcount at the end of the bed, but she lifts her ass higher, angles her hips like she's waiting for more. Her brow is creased in a smile, even though a frustrated groan escapes her lips - so you give her that again, and again, until the back of her thighs are turning red and she's clawing one hand back along the length of your legs - pushing and pulling.

"You want me to fuck you senseless, sweetheart?"

And then, so needy and desperate she's just saying the first word that come to mind:

"More-"

"-when I've been railing into you so hard and your husband probably knows already, has to have seen, maybe he's listening at the door- oh," and your whole train of thought comes to a sudden halt upon seeing Hyewon's hand land on the perfect round of her ass, fingers pulling her soft, reddening skin taut, up and away from where your cock is disappearing between her cheeks - to allow more of your shaft into her hot, wet cunt - allow you to fuck her and fuck her up - allow the length of your shaft to slide deeper and hit all the spots that will send her reeling into this orgasm and the next.

Your gaze is stuck however, not to her curves rippling in excess, the damage of your thrusts pounding her body to ruin, or the look of flawless pleasure twisting up the pretty features of Hyewon's reflection, but instead it's the fucking flash and catch of the diamond that adorns her fourth finger. Even when you have her completely helpless, bent on your mercy, she's still wearing that promise, that intention to have and to hold, and you think, for at least a second, this whole roleplay thing isn't the worst idea: being a surrogate to fulfill someone's wildest fantasies. It might even be enough to make you hard all over again - the thrill and the debasement of your girl, lines quickly blurring between the Hyewon you'll take home and put back together and the Hyewon you're fucking pouding into a mattress - the here and now.

"Fuck, Hyewon," you find yourself swearing - steadying the hips rolling back in your palms, bending down until the flat of your chest meets her back, until your nose is in her hair, the long strands sticking to her lips and the back of her ears. Until you feel her shaking as you suckle against her skin, at her neck, hot kisses between the shoulder blades, finding a grip in her hands. Her grip in yours - as she's muffling these exquisite, needy sounds; she is perfect. Hyewon is perfect.

The first time you cum, it's this hot splatter of white: smeared across her ass and the crease of her lower back. It feels almost dirty to think that's just how you feel about it; your heart is stuttering in its erratic pace, but your eyes are drawn and enraptured, the sight of it all.

Then second, maybe your favorite: when she slips her hand to your aching shaft and simply takes you back inside her. This soft, wet, inviting heat that pulls you back to her.

"God- please," her head tips back, you feel the arch of her back through her ribs and stomach, the way her breath catches as you slide your cock through her creamed-out-cunt so much harder and smoother. "It feels so fucking good, baby," and there are tears now, welling in the corner of her eyes, "don't stop, God don't ever stop-"

She can barely finish her sentence before she's cut off, a moan ripped from the bottom of her lungs and a gasp straight from the pain-pleasure that has your balls slapping against her pussy every other stroke. And suddenly she's sitting, or rather, squirming into your arms, her face buried in your shoulders as she starts riding you, and not-quite crying and saying again - again, the whole filthy lot of things: about her wanting you to fill her, to plug her up with your cock. Every thrust she whines in your ears, clutching onto the fabric of your shirt and making a mess of herself in you.

It's this wild and reckless thing that makes its way around the room, on every surface and bit of furniture. You fuck her over the counter, let her ride you on the sofa, the chair, the two of you managing to find some sort of assistance in the wall even, the door frame, her legs up your sides and the slippery-sticky-heat of your mouths connecting and everything that isn't exactly meant to support that kind of strain buckling and nearly giving way - once when the wooden joints in the door-frame shift, once when she begs for release in that frantic voice that doesn't sound a thing like her. And the way she comes apart under you after, on top of you - is even sweeter; you imagine there's this endless possibility for love, for pleasure, a whole world in bundled in the notion that you could do it for her again, that it was always a question of Hyewon letting you have her that way, and the rest was mere foreplay - a stretch.

Only, on the bed again, Hyewon shivers beneath you, this full-body response, and you've got her stretched as she opens up - that the slightest of movements has her already whimpering out "fuck," and "please," and "right there," and "fuck you're going to make me come like this. You're so good, just fucking," and "more, harder, please, you feel so fucking good-"

The desperation for release is so palpable in her that it's curling into your stomach as your press Hyewon's knees into the points and edges of her shoulders and fold in her half - this perfect angle of leverage. Fucking her like she's yours and no one else's - the absolute delight of her cunt, wet, hot, and desperate to milk you empty - her body quaking at the force of each thrust, and the hungry grind of your hips into hers. Her fingers digging and knotting in the sheets around you until her knuckles pale, and your own grasp on her skin threatens to bruise.

"Inside me," she gasps out, because she can feel that edge just as well as you, "I want you to fill me, just cum inside, God, you always feel so amazing, fuck, like that, cum inside me, cum in me-"

"How could I say no, especially when you ask so sweetly," you tell her, kissing into her smile, "can you take another? Baby, look at me, look into my eyes, yeah? Look right back at me."

Her eyes blink and roll back a bit, almost losing focus and her eyelashes flutter - the creases in her brow, the elegant lines of her face locking up in the overwhelming tension, then, a peak.

And a demand, meekly asking you to fill her up. Until there's nothing left. "Cum," Hyewon moans, "for the love of fuck-"

You push her past her climax until she's practically weeping, sobbing through a litany of nonsense and slurred, unfinished sentences and almost howls, struggling beneath your weight and coaxing her fingers over the surge at the base of your spine. Before a hot liquid mess bursts out of you, into the deepest reach of Hyewon's throbbing cunt - cumming inside her, while you hold her down, not allowing her to move as your hips lock and you're both left groaning in utter agony.

(This was the thing you'd told her once - cumming inside her was almost always worth the effort it took to clean it all back out. You like the possessive aspect of it, maybe the slight humiliation, and more than anything, she'll just melt: once she's gone past the immediate discomfort. If anyone could really learn to get off on feeling a little filthy, it's the two of you. And she knows that too, Hyewon's eager little pout intimates, as she blinks down to watch where the two of you connect.)

You don't say much for the next while. If there's a line where this particular escapade blends back into your normal life, where the Hyewon curled up in the sheets is your own girl and not some half-conceived entity that didn't fit the reality of the rest of the evening, or how you see Hyewon everyday, even then, it’s not clear.

She's utterly boneless - this fragile, dazed thing that runs her palms all the way around her breasts and pulls up her stockings a little further up the line of her hips, as if you weren't going to peel them back and slip them all the way off when you had the wherewithal to handle it. But the strength in her isn't entirely lost either, she looks ready to burst: this air of pride and smugness - victory, right in her grin, which isn't totally surprising. Hyewon usually gets an odd satisfaction out of your participation in whatever hedonistic or obscene thing it is she wants to try.

This was her fantasy - maybe not a deeply rooted or unattainable one, but she'd worked out some kinks of hers and has walked away a far better woman for it, knowing what a sight she is to you. Like this.

"That was... fun," Hyewon eventually says, collecting articles of clothing strewn about the room.

Her shoes are one of two sets in the shoe-rack, but she'll have to look around and under the bed to find her dress. It would probably be some strange level of easy to play dumb and wait until she comes to the conclusion on her own that she should bend down and check down there, but she looks a little too worn out to really be interested in her clothes, more like, ready for the next part.

"We should do it again," her gaze lands, intent, and serious, back to you.

"Which part?" you have to ask, because you're probably still, a little slow on the uptake.

A small laugh, the sly smirk to herself; she knows she has you wrapped so perfectly around her finger, ready to bend to whatever game she can come up with: "whichever part you like."

[lokisgoodgirl]

Slower [Loki x f.Reader]

A Link to my Masterlist is HERE Summary: Loki strips it all off. Slowly. (w/c 1.9k) Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI. Smuttish. Language. Established relationship. A/N: Some lines taken from my drabble New Lingerie

You sat perched on the edge of Loki’s bed, poised as the heavy footsteps grew closer. Each leathered thud ricocheted around the high hallway ceiling.

He was coming. Coming to you. Coming for you.

And he was almost here.

Your back straightened, feeling the cut of the corset tight to your chest. Fingers widened against the cotton sheets, material melting into every ridge. The main apartment door flew open somewhere beyond, slamming shut immediately.

Just a few more steps. Thud. The thunder in your chest was deafening. Your body a pulsing, adrenaline-soaked vessel dripping and trembling with unspent desire.

The doorknob turned. And in a moment of eerie quiet, the door swung open. Slowly. Loki-the-Warrior filled the frame. The silhouette of his huge body against the hallway light, haloed against the inconsequential outside world.

He was a heaving, smouldering, mission-soaked mass.

Narrowed eyes peered up beneath thick brows, the alignment of his nose and lips and chin to his chest making arousal seep deeper into your flimsy gusset.

Loose hair fell in waves around his shoulders, the cape settling in swinging folds by his calves. He had been expecting you, it seemed. You swallowed, watching the twitch of his lip curl into a solitary, mirthless dimple.

"What in the Nine...are you wearing?" he snarled. Embers of the fresh fight pulsed in his glare as he paused. It hit it like a punch.

Loki's forearm propped on the doorframe. A cool draft tickled your skin. You hadn’t realised how warm it was in here.

"Do you like it?" you purred nervously, uncrossing and re-crossing your legs. The silk chiffon of your stockings slid together as Loki’s lips pursed. He tilted his head, throat working.

You could see cogs turning as he ran his eyes over the boned corset clinging to your body, over the lines of your suspender belt strapped tight to supple flesh.

A finger ran lightly down your thigh, slipping one beneath a string. “It’s called lingerie,” you said, inspecting before releasing the suspender with a snap. His eyebrows rose, a low chuckle forming before he shook his head.

"Never before have I seen you so,” he paused with mild disdain, running the icy stare to the tips of your toes back to your face, ��hidden... on my return.”

The velvet voice was tinged with suspicion as he flicked a hand by his side, making the leather cape swing as he paced slowly toward you. Each stride, measured. “Although I shall admit, it... stirs something deep within me.”

He came to stop at eye level, his stomach inches from your parted lips.

Loki’s voice was heavy, thick with the day’s trials and the beating drum of his baser needs which demanded attention as they always did. "Was that your plot?” he smouldered, “to stir something within me, little fox?"

The god’s cock was hardening visibly beneath his trousers as he spoke, creases forming as the ancient material relented to the power beneath. It grew upward against his hip, shameless and ready. He was always ready.

"It's crotchless?" you offered meekly, fastening your lips to the bulge in front of you. You sucked the leather, making your god release a guttural growl. The heat from your breath misted, wetness forming. A shallow groan floated down as his knees buckled. Just a bit. "Midgardians..." he murmured incredulously, his fingers smoothing the back of your head, pressing your closer. "Mmm, whatever will you think of next?" His hands moved down the curve of your neck, cupping your shoulders before pushing you back from his crotch.

You looked up into his darkened eyes, every inch his willing whore. Loki let out a sigh as his fingertips trailed lazily over the swell of your cleavage, eyes following every small indentation they made. He grunted, hips squeezing forwards as if fighting himself.

“And what is the male equivalent in this realm for this type of garment?” he purred, sentimentality returning to his voice as his walls lowered. "Surely there must be one." You uncrossed your legs, widening your thighs and pulled his tunic closer. Craning up at this angle you could see the faintly smeared signs of battle coating his throat. Thin trails of clean skin through dried sweat down the hard vein of his neck. “Some say suits,” you husked. “But I say... leather.” Loki’s breath hitched, choking back a laugh. “You cannot possibly feel the way that I do at this present time whenever you see me in this,” he stuttered, gesturing weakly to himself.

He was staring at your tits, his twitching, pulsing cock pressed against your cleavage. Each desperate rock of his hips made the leather rustle lightly.

Your hands began to run up the back of his thighs beneath the cape. The visceral heat of his skin through the leather made you shudder. Mess slid between your spread thighs against flimsy panties, clenching air as your fingers mapped every curve of his muscles until they met the curve of his ass. The hiss from his gritted teeth as you squeezed, pressing his cock tighter to your chest, was unbearable. “I can,” you panted, “and I do.” Loki let out a strained chuckle. “Oh darling, how awful of me to unknowingly torture you so,” he teased wickedly, spreading his feet wider on the floor. The clunk of his heavy boots was ceremonial. You laughed softly. “You know how incredible you look in your armour. In everything, actually. And nothing.” You looked up at him, feeling unexpected heat creep into your cheeks. “You know it. And I know you know it.” “Well, yes. Quite,” he postured with a smirk before his lips hardened. His eyes suddenly glazed. “But to think of you... a quivering wreck of desire at my mere presence wearing such basic uniform is,” he paused, breaths quick; “arousing in the extreme.” “Nothing about you is basic,” you smiled, squeezing his ass before searching kisses worked over the surface of his tunic. He moaned, as rich and luxe as the sheets beneath your thighs. His ass, the flat of his midriff, it was all so fucking hard. All of him. Loki’s cock twitched. Your nails scratched against the material, pulling him closer. The solid impossibility of him being so close would never be enough. “What do you think of? When you see me in-” He gasped as your teeth grazing against the thick of his shaft through the leather, “-public...in, in this” he finished, one thigh beginning to tremble. You rested your chin on his length, pressing hard as you looked up. “I imagine touching myself,” you enunciated slowly, “it’s all I can do not to do it right there,” You out a soft, calculated moan. Loki released the breath he’d been holding in a short puff, possessive desire burning deep in his eyes as he stared into yours. “And, I imagine you stripping it off,” you continued with a wink.

The god pressed his lips together, a quaking sigh rolling in his throat. That can be arranged, he was about to say. “Slowly, though -” you quipped, quickly leaning back on your elbows against the mattress. Loki frowned. “No magic?”

You shook your head playfully, biting your lip. “And then we make love, yes?” he said, suspicion returning as he took a step back. You nodded, fighting to contain a gleeful smile.

Long, eager fingers flew beneath his left shoulder, tearing at the buckle fastenings beneath.

“Uh-uh,” you chided, drawing your soles over the duvet spread. You widened your legs, letting them fall open. “Slowly, please” you repeated, drawing a lazy finger up the length of your thigh. “Give me a show, Loki of Asgard.” The sultriness of your voice surprised even you as a sigh racked your lover’s torso. There was a beat of resignation, before his shoulders adopted a mouth-watering ceremonial snap. Slowly this time, he reached for the buckle attaching the length of leather cape to his shoulder guard. The soft clunk of metal releasing made you clench. Loki watched the fine leather draping fall away from his shoulder, the angle of his jaw flashing in the low light. Beneath a fan of ebony lashes, he lifted his gaze to you before reaching to the other buckle. Your breath hitched as another beautiful clunk pierced the air like a penny on glass. The mechanism released, the fabric sliding seductively down his arm. The ancient Asgardian leather pooled in a semi-circle by his feet. Silk lining shone invitingly in shadow. “Slow enough for you, my love?” he purred. You nodded, not breaking eye contact as he made a show of pulling each settle of leather from his fingers. The knuckleguards peeled from his skin, falling soundlessly by his feet. “Truly,” he started casually while dexterous digits began to unlace unseen binds on the left side of his torso, “Asgardian tanner workmanship is the finest in all the realms.” The whizz of leather on leather buzzed as a lace was pulled beneath one long finger, loosening the tunic. “I do not appreciate it as much as I should, perhaps.” “I agree,” you murmured seductively, fighting the urge to launch yourself from the bed and fasten to his body like wet paper on a wall. He reached behind his head, tugging the leather vest. It slipped over, before he tossed it to the floor. Loki spread his arms, spinning in a teasing circle. His hair was mussed now, gorgeous tendrils fighting against each other for glory within an onyx crown. With unbearable precision, dancing fingers dislodged the armour from his wrists. They dropped to the floor in quick succession. The god lowered his chin, deep eyes penetrating your soul as he slid two fingers beneath the folds of deep green leather. The arms carried the traditional ceremonial markings of his station, of his power. But what lay beneath the chestplate now resting on the floor was more valuable. More poetic. Despite never being on full show, the body of the under-tunic was a work of art. Each stitch crafted by ancient fingertips in faraway lands, embroidered and infused with spells and primordial rites befitting their ultimate adornment. Him. A sliver of alabaster skin appeared, the valley of sculpted chest muscle you ran your tongue over before you rode him almost every night flashing into view. Each golden button fell away beneath that graceful touch. Another, and another, slowly to the bottom hem. Until only one remained.

Loki toyed with it, running his thumb along the curve which hung just above his naval. You groaned, gripping the bedsheets in a fist. “Whatever is the matter, love?” he teased. “You requested slow, so slow...I shall be.” His eyebrows rose expectantly, daring a response. You couldn’t muster one, as the final button popped between his fingers.

With aching precision, Loki shrugged the leather tunic from his shoulders with a sluttish roll. The tight jacket caught on the curve of his biceps, edging down before dropping to the floor with a thick thump. You moaned again, feeling your resolve weaken. Loki was looking to the floor, hair hanging by his cheekbones. It spread to candlelight-glossed shoulders as he lifted his face, the marble perfection of that bone-structure making you tremble on his bed like a virgin. You would never get used to seeing him undressed. But half-dressed? Somehow, that was even more deadly. His abdominals clenched with each breath, the sharp lines of his obliques cutting and receding. Was he holding back, the way that you were? He was enjoying this, that much was certain. Loki’s manhood still stretched up to his hip, fat and desperate for your touch. You licked your lips, biting gently. The god cocked his head. “Taking off one’s shoes is never an attractive endeavour,” he stated sheepishly, widening his legs. The thick v of his hip muscles flexed. Making use of the pause, you scooted to the side; extending your legs and popping a hand leisurely beneath your head. “Well, how else are you gonna get those tight trousers off, Laufeyson?” you teased. Loki squinted, pursing his lips. “No magic?” he grumbled. “No magic,” you confirmed. Without missing a beat, Loki bunched a scarce inch of leather by his outer thigh in a vice. With a thundering rip, he pulled the ancient leather from his body. The trousers split like tissue paper, cast to the side where they skated theatrically across the floor before scraping to a stop. You stared at them, open-mouthed before sliding back to his waiting smirk.

He gave a small nod of self-satisfied acknowledgement.

A smile stretched across your face, reaching your eyes as his did the same. He gave a light shrug as his fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, tugging gently while he stared into your eyes.

“And the boots?” you whispered, voice catching. “Oh no, darling” Loki murmured, his voice thick and heavy with lust. He began to stride the final steps towards you.

“Tonight, the boots stay on.”

Tags (cont in comments)

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[fa-dubu]

1.7 ch 6 brain dump

cognac has been cogged and nacked, beef jerky as been beefed and jerked; let's get these thoughts in order

spoilers for 1.7 main story and a minor one from 1.9

i have not played isolde's story yet so these are my impressions purely from the main story

so isolde is repressed repressed, like WOW

the little details i picked up in dialogue and descriptions paint the picture of an anxiety-ridden girl, walking on eggshells all day long, forcing herself to play her part perfectly, always one little thing away from a nervous breakdown or panic attack. at this point i think her corset is literally the only thing holding her up and keeping her from collapsing in on herself

the detail about how corsets aren't really in fashion anymore but she still wears them with a few more 'in-fashion' jewelry pieces: she's old money but she can't look like old news - she has to keep up with the trends otherwise the audience will leave

her whole life has been about repressing herself and shaping herself into what other wanted:

1) the bit about her remembering what it felt like to balance books atop her head to force a straight posture bc that's how people expect a noble lady to act, that's how people expect a Dittarsdorf should act (until they go crazy) 2) her mother snapped and killed her father and everyone else in the room and she's gotta carry that because she's the only one left - the one responsible one left 3) her sister died in childhood and she buried the pain and turmoil so deep inside her that she repressed the memory. if she remembers her sister dying, she'll remember that she's likely also going to end the same way, if not like her mother and she cannot allow herself to end up like her mother

which all leads to her hidden resentment of theopil and the way it leaked more and more as the story progressed. based off isolde's descriptions of him and marcus's 'reading' of his burnt paintings theophil comes off as an artsy fuckboy. whereas isolde is snapping herself in two to give off old-school noble gentlewoman vibes, theophil goes where he pleases and does what (and who) he wants.

personal theory is that isolde is a closeted, repressed lesbian who hates that her irresponsible brother is out mingling and seducing beautiful women in the way she won't allow herself to want. she's got stronger arcanum them him, she's a singer and a more talented artist, what does he have on her other than the fact that he's a man. and a 'man' at the time and place should be growing mustaches and challenging duels and joining the army and he won't even do that.

sweet songbird in a cage that hates the world around her so much. what has the world ever given her other than pain and loss and the reminder that she's next if she slips up. she's perfectly fine burning it down as long as she has her cavaradossi

there's so! much! about class disparity in here too! the difference in social hierarchy between: 1) old money isolde: still lives at the whims of human-ran society but can get away with it because she has money and connections like karl; 2) middle class kakania: whose family started out as small-time merchants but managed to attain enough wealth to send her to college but doesn't have the social-backing like isolde to avoid arrest; 3) lower class illich: street peddler and orphan with no way to climb up the social ladder. the story explicitly shows that even with her money and social network, at the end of the day isolde, kakania, and illich are essentially the same (there are other nuances though, since this is just about the 3 levels in a human society. in an arcanist society like the manus, they still care about separating between pureblooded and mixed-blood arcanists, ie: the way manus is perfectly fine with using illich and other poor arcanists as cannon fodder for chaos and leaving them to die in the storm)

kakania! i thought she was going to my fave but isolde stole the damn show. still love this baby idealist though. i love the speech she gave isolde at the end of their therapy session (ignoring the fallout of that lmaoooo) because it shows that she's genuinely wants to make the world a better place. i especially love the little bite of cynicism in her.

1) the trails grandma who describes what seems to be kakania's early circle days where she was describing her ideals and trying to get support has a line that's like, kakania is grinning and bearing through it even as she's aware her supporters are patronizing her and seemingly only there for entertainment rather than actually listening to what she's saying 2) her describing the origin of her alias to marcus and part of her speech to isolde has her revealing that she hates the hypocrisy that makes up their society: the freedom of expression and art and progressiveness all the while there are the underclass comprised of immigrants and poor arcanists forcibly kept out of sight. how much she hates prejudice hidden behind bureaucracy. she hates it but she wants to make it better!

i love that she admits when she's hypocritical!!!! kakania wanted a revolution because she knows things as they are aren't great, but when a revolution does happen and it doesn't happen in the way she wants, her beliefs are shaken. granted this is because of manus machinations and is one of the worst ways of changing their current society but still. the point being, UNLIKE HEINRICH: whose thing is that he hated how his friends were forced to fight in wwi and suffered immensely so he wants to erase wwi from existence by making it so the timeline never gets to wwi and if he's gotta have the current world as collateral damage so be it uwu.

other people have spoken more and better about greta and marcus so the only thing i'll add is i absolutely love marcus's voice-acting, especially after shit hits the fan. actually, all our mains (greta, marcus, kakania, isolde, heinrich, even karl - i had to listen to his 'oh. tragic.' line so many times lmao) are excellent!! i think this chapter has my favorite voice-acting and while the rest of the game is also phenomenal, the fact this chapter only had a few noticeable typos and grammar awkwardness kept from hindering the voice work. (also i think the 1.6 survey specifically had a translation question lol, bluepoch is learning)

speaking of heinrich: if i am to understand it correctly, he was recruited by the manus in the same storm that greta recruited marcus from. he got to live in the future for a bit, learned about the fate of his friends, and then returned to his era with the current storm. in essence, he got to see people who already died. (you following me here?) now the question is: if a storm happens to take us to before 1929, is there a chance to see schneider again? or, because heinrich's friends died in wwi he can see them but because schneider was sifted by the storm, she's gone no matter how far we go back?

additional thots:

i'm loving the idea of a kakania vs mesmer jr showdown. therapist who needs a therapist vs therapist who needs a therapist. need them to have tea and passive aggressively psychoanalyze each other.

so we know kakania started the circle and theophil and heinrich and others were part of it. did isolde join the circle herself or is this a 'theophil joined and brought his little sister to the hangout and she keeps showing up so now she's unofficially part of it too' situation?

so part of isolde's character is that she's hidden behind layers of repression and ghosts and playing the part of what her audience wants. is the sad lonely girl isolde just an act because that's what kakania wanted? because kakania wanted to prove her methods work, and isolde wanted kakania, this was the way to have her?

i love mesmer jr but i love putting her situations: i know realistically vertin would not put isolde and kakania's rooms anywhere near each other but i love the thought of mesmer's room being between isolde and kakania.

[heartfullofleeches]

look, my dear mr devil person

you cannot say rosebud has a human form

and simply not engage more

i now beg of you to make a random scenario of reader meeting human rosebud pleSe

Your first day off in days, and the first thing you do is visit the gallery. You couldn't help it- The place was like a home away from home with how much you worked, and being the cog that keeps things running made you almost as attached to it as its inhabitants were to you.

You take your time getting ready since there was no rush, leaving home around noon. You keep your badge pinned for the free admission and break the short distance between your building and the gallery. Management had helped you secure the apartment in case there was an emergency while you were away, and since it was mostly paid off by them you had no problems moving in.

The gallery was nice and peaceful today. No field trips or tourist cluttering the floor. With how hectic things get during the day, you're almost glad you got stuck with the night crew. You make quick conversation with the receptionist, grabbing a map as you leave their station. You knew the layout of the gallery better than your own apartment complex, but it made mapping out your visit much easier. Normally you explored the upper floors since doing the same at night was difficult, but to avoid any complaining from the lower floors you'd start on ground floor first.

Not much here besides a couple paintings and the garden. You saying hello to Scavenger on your way to the lot, gaining a few side eyes from fellow vistors in the process. You made it to the garden right around the time it warmed up for the day. The hot sunlight was a stark contrast to the cool moonlight surrounding you at night. The various flower brushes are in full bloom, and members of the dayshift were working on refurbishing the butterfly garden in tandem with its reopening next week.

You march up the stone path to the center piece of the garden, a statue depicting a shut rosebud nestled within a bush full of red roses. Since they weren't able to bite you, you poke around in the leaves and admire the roses vibrant colors with your hands. As you prepare to move onto the next exhibit, you can't help but wonder-

Had the statue's petals always been that open?

"Beautiful devils, aren't they?"

Swallowing a mini heart attack, you turn in the direction of the voice. The stranger looked like a work of art themselves. Forest green eyes, curly mane the same brilliant red as the rose between your fingers. Stray strands of hair braid the sides of their face like vines; a mole kissing their upper left cheek. A black corset hugs their broad waist, black gloves poking from the collar of their ruffled white sleeves. They smile down at you from the rim of the glass in hand.

"But I believe my eye has caught someone far more breathtaking right in front of me. Who might you be, dearest?"

"Y/n. Who are you?"

"Y/n." The stranger licks the wine off their thin lips. There's something familiar about way your name fits in their mouth. "A gorgeous name for a gorgeous character. My friends call me Rose, but you- may call me Ro if you please. I'm sure any name would be a godsend from a creature like you."

Ro stretches their hand towards you, arm freezing as the sleeve of their shirt pulls up their skin. They recoil, downing the glass with lightning speed. They laugh off the action, pointing at the cup.

"There is another reason I got your attention. I noticed your badge and was wondering if there were rules against this."

"I won't tell if you won't."

"Wonderful. I wanted to meet someone special today to look for something and as shameful as it is, I am in need of a little "liquid courage" to walk around in large spaces."

"Did you find whatever you were looking for?"

"Yes... and so much more." Ro's gaze loiters on you for a beat long than a stranger's normal would. They shift on their heels. "But my acquaintance has left me for now. I'd hate to trouble you, but could I ask you a few questions about some of the exhibits here? I'd like to increase my knowledge before they get back."

"Um, sure. Let me go grab another map real quick to help you out."

"That would be lovely, Rosetta."

You stop in your tracts. "What did you say?"

"I said that would be very helpful, dear."

"Right..." You quickly exit the room.

Rosebud watches you leave with a grin. They crouch beside their rose bush, walking the sleeping buds with a stroke of their stems. "Hello, dears. I'm sorry to wake you so soon- Yes, that was our darling guard, but you can't play with them right now. I need you to do me a little favor, and then we can spend as much time with them as we desire."

When you return, Ro's glass is filled to the brim in crimson.

[mangledscrimp]

Hersh 2.0!! haha hehe!! Here’s her ref!! as usual, i’ll provide facts and stuff about other characters involved with them as well! Claire n Clive mentions as well!

(Also! If anyone would like to see a diagram of anything that i’ve stated here, feel free to send an ask if you need help to see what I write visually! （＾ν＾）)

Differences between Hersh 2.0 and Regular Hersh

•Hair

Hersh 2.0’s hair is much shorter and a portrayal of how Hershel had it during her college years. The hair bump is smaller. Also, their hairs are parted differently! Hersh 2.0 has cylindrical side tuffs that create curls behind the ear. Hershel’s hair tuffs do not go behind the ears and stay intact going in front of the ear! The bottom is also to even compared to regular Hershel’s hair. It’s also a smidge darker than regular Hershel’s hair color.

•Facial Features

Hersh 2.0 has no facial hair. This is because of Claire’s vague memory of Hershel during college. During college, Hershel did indeed have facial hair by her lip and cheeks (like how she normally does) . But Claire’s memory of Hershel is too foggy to remember a detail like facial hair.

-Crow feet

Hersh 2.0’s crow feet are uncolored bumps of metal by the eyes while regular Hershel has two little lines by her eyes! (No they are not eyelashes, she is a very stressed person )

-Eyes

Hersh 2.0 has the same color eyes as the mouth, but different bulbs of course. Her eyes are much bigger than Hershel’s eyes. To make it seem more like Hershel, Claire put a light coating of black paint over them.

Facts!

- Hersh 2.0 is built to represent Hershel during college where she was once in a relationship with Claire. The age would be in the 20s.

^- The dialogue being said is something that Hershel actually said! Though, it’s not quite right. Claire uses conversations she had with Hershel from her memory to create dialogue for Hersh 2.0. She cuts out words she does not want to hear by hooking herself up to her computer and rewrites her own memory by the press of a button.

-Clive is uncomfortable around Hersh 2.0. They believe that it’s morally wrong to create something like them for a purpose of lingering on the past. He and Claire sometimes have arguments over Hersh 2.0 and how it’s not a good coping mechanism. After Claire is too ignorant to listen to any of his advice, he decides to leave it be because he knows Claire’s life is already pretty stressful. Though he does try to encourage Claire to meet new people from time to time.

- Hershel does not know Hersh 2.0 exists.

-Since Hersh 2.0 is the idealized version of Hershel in Claire’s eyes, she is very kind and helpful! Claire generally keeps her inside the Clock Shop, stocking shelves and sorting things, but sometimes Hersh 2.0 runs errands without Claire’s knowledge (at least, that’s what Hersh 2.0 thinks) and buys things that either the house or the shop needs. Unknown to them, Claire does track both Clive and Hersh 2.0. She just feels a bit anxious not knowing where her loved ones are.

-Hersh 2.0’s body is made with the same metal as the little cogs on Clive and Claire’s hats. The reason why the forearms, forelegs, partial neck, and head are different is because claire painted it to look more like Hershel!

-Hersh 2.0 and Clive’s vest are all matching with Claire’s corset!

Also, fun little idea I have!

- Des and Claire are friends online! (yes there is the internet..I plan to bring it in somehow…) They often talk on message boards relating to machinery and share their creations with each other privately.

[sirserpentine]

𝐓𝐇𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 𝐘𝐎𝐔𝐑 𝐌𝐔𝐒𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐍 𝐁𝐄 𝐈𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐈𝐅𝐈𝐄𝐃 𝐁𝐘.

𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐒:

Gold. Copper. Black. Dark Grey. Ruby red. Lots of metallic shades. Also, yellow.

𝐒𝐂𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐒:

Cinnamon, orange peel, lemon, vanilla, baked treats, gasoline, smoke, leather, peppermint, candles, Earl Grey, roses, rain, clean sheets, Oct-1-en-3-one (That's what makes metals and blood smell... metallic)

𝐅𝐀𝐒𝐇𝐈𝐎𝐍:

Tall hats, tailcoats, collared shirts, rolled sleeves, pinstripers, waistcoats, vests, leather straps, bowties, cravats, goggles, gloves, brass jewellery, utilitarian belts, corsets, hair ribbons, pockets, pouches, small chains, brooches

𝐎𝐁𝐉𝐄𝐂𝐓𝐒:

pocketwatch, tools, cogs, tea cups, leather-bound journals, ink, piano, clocks, weapons, blueprints, cake tins

𝐁𝐎𝐃𝐘 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐔𝐀𝐆𝐄:

Tail wags, toothy grins, stuttering, hand fiddling, bowtie and collar fixing, tip of his hat, deep bows, theatrical poses, wrung hands, hands on chest, teary eyes, heavy cries, gentle and tremoring claws, gyrating tail, crossed arms, secure hold, never stops trying to dance without legs

𝐀𝐄𝐒𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐓𝐈𝐂𝐒:

Tinted glass against the sunset, steaming cup of tea next to an old, open novel, meticulous cake decorating, breeze on a lonely field of flowers, pouring milk into a bowl for a cat, a steam engine slowly breathing in and out, being scared of the mirror, sitting down on the velvet seat of a theatre, scales glinting in moonlight, pocket watch ticking with powder hidden inside it, cogwheels turning, letters sealed with wax, sitting suited up in an abandoned train, explosions, lying down in burning rubble as rain pours over you

tagged by: @angie-long-legs Thank you so much!! Yours was so sublime! So tangible!! Could see Angel in every single one.

tagging: @hazbinned, @radioiaci, @aracniss, @poisonedspider, @veneror, @krovcost

[manabombs]

Went to the Washington Midsummer Renaissance Faire yesterday for the “Cogs & Corsets on the High Seas” themed weekend

[starrycardcaptor]

if it's not too much trouble,, could this automaton ask for steampunk inspired names,, titles,, && pronouns ?? thank uu greatly !! ^__^

☆ with a wave of his wand , the cardcaptor grants you . . .

names ! ☆ amos , arabella , arthur , barnaby , blaire , clement , constant , cyrus , eliphalet , emerson , genevieve , joel , junius , lavinia , maxwell , meriwether , nat , percival , sophronia , silas , sterling , thaddeus , verne , winthrop !

pronouns ! ☆ brass / brasses / brasses / brasself , bol / bolt / bolts / boltself , bron / bronze / bronzes / bronzeself , clock / clocks / clocks / clockself , cog / cogs / cogs / cogself , gear / gears / gears / gearself , gog / goggle / goggles / goggleself , stea / steam / steams / steamself , tick / tock / ticks (or tocks) / tickself (or tockself ) , time / times / times / timeself !

titles ! ☆ prn in the ticking tophat , prn of the brass buckles , prn / the one who exhales steam , prn who watches the clock , prn who wears corsets and clocks , the cog turner , the sepia-toned clocksmith , the one adorned in gears and goggles !

reminder to understand the origin of your names / pronouns / titles before you use them ! ☆

[sukunasun]

sunnnyyy hiii love ur work, Ive been trying to access the geto fic where the reader is dressed like an angel for a halloween party, and i can’t :(( it’s so cute and honestly although it’s fiction it makes me have hope that as a chubby person myself, i’ll get my love. idk im sorry for the last part thanks so much tho !!

hello! there's no need to apologise, i completely understand the feeling so thanks for letting me know and i'll leave the fic below and update the link on the masterlist :)

geto stares at you from across the room.

"look who fell from heaven." mahito teases as he looks over to you standing in a corner, lip tucked between your teeth as you gnaw at the growing uneasiness in your tummy, anxiety swirling in an endless pit at the number of people sneaking glances at you in an angel costume; gold-dipped feathers, ruffled white dress stopping short at just the right length revealing soft thighs, your breasts pushed up by a corset, knee-length shoes that fit snugly over your calves, and a pair of wings you probably put way too much effort in compared to everyone else who showed up in cat ears and witches' hats. you wonder when halloween parties become more about the booze and making out in some stranger's bedroom.

"go ahead, i dare you." mahito challenges, with his chin tucked into his palm, he languidly glances over to geto with cool, calculating eyes and he can already see the cogs turning in his head, planning out another one of his sadistic plots.

"not a chance." geto says. he'd make the first move himself if he could, walk towards you, lean in close, and sweet-talk you til you're in his bed, leaving your scent in his sheets, staining his lips with the very essence that drips from you were it not for the way you currently look the very picture of pure; an angel seems so fitting now that he can't pull his eyes away, trailing over a full figure made to perfection, all shy smiles and wide eyes, a cup of fruity punch without a single drop of alcohol, the cheerful wallflower at every party, who scrunches her eyebrows and laughs to herself when she thinks she said something stupid, "sorry, am i making sense?" you say in every conversation, fiddling innocently with your phone like you weren't pretending to text someone just to seem occupied and 'sociable'. even gojo's got his hands tucked into his pockets when he speaks to you, no coy smiles or double entendres, and geto knows he only gets like that when he's speaking to children or the elderly.

"what, you're too good for her?" mahito says. quite the opposite really, he couldn't be the guy who tainted you. how sweet, how lovely you were just standing there, swimming in your own thoughts, thinking about going home and feeling sorry for yourself. he wished he could tell you otherwise, show you exactly how he'd love you, obsess over you. couldn't begin to imagine what you were like when you're coming to life, holding no barriers, letting loose and letting him in. what it would be like when he's hovering over you, dark eyes taking in the sight of your body, salivating and hungry for it, to sink his teeth into your neck and nudge his cock deep inside you. would you try to hide, tell him to look away so he whispers to you all the things he loves to quell your worries, your doubts, or would you show him a side of yourself that's wanting, that you bury deep down inside for true love, your other half, a perfect person, you're one and only. the thought itself so naive yet, he wants you even more because of it.

geto brings his drink up to his lips, condensation from the bottle dripping over his jeans, needing that little bit of liquid courage for his next admission, "she's not my type. good girls, angels, not the kind i'm looking for." he reasons, swallows it down with the bitter taste of asahi. he catches the sight of you watching him, eyes darting away the moment he looks at you, the gesture so endearing something starts to hurt in his chest.

it earns him a laugh in return, "are you serious? you wouldn't last a week before you're in deep," mahito grins, because geto's always going after what he thinks he deserves, girls who would never give him what he longs for ultimately because what he truly wants is too far out of reach. he craves the ones he can protect, with soothing touches and a morning voice calling out to him, 'come back to bed baby.' and he'd stay, if only they wanted him to. "wanna bet on it? either you ask her out or i'll have fun with her myself." mahito leans closer, keeping his voice lowered.

geto tilts an eyebrow up in lieu of asking the meaning behind it because he's never been that much of a prick, sure, mahito loves to fuck everyone else's life up and geto doesn't know when he ever got roped into all of it but this was something else, you were something else. he could've named a dozen times off the top of his head that mahito had hurt a girl, an unsuspecting, trusting girl. with almost methodical precision, knowing exactly how to lead the innocent ones on, pretending to be interested, turn them into a heartbroken mess because it's what he does, toying with people's emotions had been his thing and he imagines you with a swollen face, downcast eyes brimming with tears, the thought seizing him by the guts and twisting into reluctance, frustration pressing on his shoulders in layers.

he breathes in deeply, downs the very last of his drink before he gets up and makes his way over to you. as his steps grow heavier, the only comfort he feels is that you'd be better off dealing with him than with mahito. because at least geto wouldn't hurt you...of course not.

[worldwidewebzy]

Veeeeerrryyyyy tired have my gay cog oc shes the bomb

Plus. Alt

[her-pale-shadow]

Kink in a genre setting? My brain goes to steampunk fuck machine. Clanks and whistles as the gears turn louder than the moans of whoever it’s fucking, driven by steam and the dildo is slightly warm as it thrusts in

OOOO. I love steampunk! On an aesthetic level, but also on a horny level 😍 That stereotypical combo of an underbust corset that pushes up your tits and a frilly off-shoulder shirt that looks made to be pulled down... 👀👀👀😍😍😍

And that's a very hot place for your brain to go 😍 Now I'm thinking about being a lady who keeps a mechanised dildo in some private rooms. I keep it locked up while I go for a walk and conduct other business, and people wonder what I moved in that makes all the noise- but the sound of steam and cogs isn't too out of the ordinary, so they conclude that it probably isn't anything interesting.

When I get back, I go to see how you're doing, looking very different from all the people in fancy clothes and multiple layers outside because you're stripped totally naked. You've only got on the ropes holding you in place while the fucking machine turns you into an absolute mess, your juices dripping and drooling from you and the dildo both. I make sure you've at least tried to stop moaning and screaming before turning the machine off. Because it's steam powered, it stops slowly rather than all at once, gradually pumping into you a few more times before it halts. Then I inspect you and stroke you reassuringly, "You've done so well. I think you're ready for me to have a go with you now." 💖

[missvelvetsstuff]

Low Expectations

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Reader has low self esteem when she meets Bucky. Can he convince her that she's the one he wants.

Chapter 7

Warnings: swearing, fluff. This chapter is mostly filler

Bucky crashed pretty quickly that night but was up before the sun and couldn't go back to sleep. He tried to keep himself occupied until he knew Y/N would probably be awake and sent her a text...

'Hey doll. I'm sorry I was gone so long but want to see you as soon as you have the time. I miss you.'

He set his phone down and tried to find something to keep himself occupied.

Y/N woke up after another rough night. She hadn't been able to sleep wondering how Bucky was and when she would hear from him so gave up and ate an edible which did the trick. She slept almost too deeply and didn't really remember any dreams. She climbed out of bed, groggy, and directly into the bathroom. After she finished her shower and wrapped up in her big plush towel she went to look through her closet for something to wear to work. Once she fixed her hair and got dressed she sat down to have coffee and relax for a few minutes before she had to leave. Her phone buzzed just as she was sitting down and the butterflies started. She took a breath and looked at her texts, her heart sped up.

It was Bucky. She opened the message and smiled then typed out a quick reply...

'I'm glad you're home safe. I'm working all week but free in the evenings as long as I'm not up too late. I missed you too.'

Bucky jumped when his phone buzzed, it had only been a few minutes and he smiled when he saw it was from Y/N. He replied right away.

'Can I bring dinner over tonight?'

'Sure around 6:30'

Bucky grinned

'See you tonight doll.'

And started to put his phone down when it buzzed again. A text from Sam with a link to tmz...

'Have you seen this?'

He opened the link and frowned. Pictures that were definitely him, since there were glimpses of his arm, and Y/N even though her face wasn't pictured as clearly as his. One in her corset, looking out his bedroom window. He shook his head in disgust, her face wasn't clear but that seemed like a violation of their privacy. He read the article about the Winter Soldiers mystery lady, scoffing at the speculation until he saw a picture from the presser with Sam in DC. That senators aide had been really aggressive with him, offering anything she could do to help him. The article mentioned the discrepancies in the aides height vs Y/N, accusing him of being a player. He shook his head, thank goodness Y/N would know better if she saw the picture. Wouldn't she? After everything that had happened and her past, he worried that she might think there was something with him and that aide. He started to panic about it but was able to talk himself down. Everything was fine. He would be seeing her tonight and it would all be fine. He was sure of it. Mostly.

Y/N spent the day at work arguing with her supervisor because she was written up for a phone call that took a good portion of the day last Friday to resolve. The write up stated she spent too much time with one caller. "Look Dennis, you want me to make sure the callers issue is resolved right? Well sometimes that takes time and multiple phone calls. I don't appreciate being dinged for doing a thorough job."

"You're a great rep, Y/N one of my best and you know I don't agree with this but it's one of the downsides of working in a call center. You need to find a way to get around this stuff. I'm sorry, the write up stands."

Y/N shook her head "I'm not signing it."

and walked back to her desk grumbling about corporate bullshit.

Sheila patted her on the back when she passed her "Be a mindless cog or suffer the consequences. Gotta love call centers."

Y/N laughed "No, I really don't. Is it 5:00 yet?"

Sheila smirked "Why? You got a hot date?" What happened with the guy, the one you are so mysterious about? You know from the tmz pics."

Y/N shook her head "TMZ? I never said anything about tmz pics. How would I possibly end up there? I'm no one."

"Oh come on. I helped you pick out that corset a couple of weeks ago, I know it's you. You're killing me here. I might be sitting next to a real life celebrity adjacent person and you won't even give me a bone. I thought we were friends."

Y/N shook her head "If you saw the pics then you must have read the article and who it was talking about so you don't need anything from me. However, I might be seeing someone infamous after work tonight and he might be a tall, gorgeous soldier with a questionable past. And that's all I know. I have to get back on the phone before Dennis fires me."

Sheila laughed "Dennis loves you, he'd never fire you." And answered a call.

Y/N smiled at her friend as she took a call too.

The rest of the afternoon dragged by and Y/N swore the clock was going backwards. It sure felt like time was going in reverse. Finally she looked up and it was 4:55 so she cleared off her desk and gathered her things up. When the clock hit 5 she logged off her computer, grabbed her stuff and left, waving goodbye to Sheila.

When Y/N made it home she straightened up and took a quick shower then put on a maxi dress that was pretty and very comfortable. She saw that it was a few minutes after 6 and made herself a wine cooler. She turned some music on and sat down to wait.

Bucky spent the day trying to figure out what to say to Y/N. He was afraid to ask her to be his girl again and absolutely didn't plan on having sex with her tonite. He wanted to be able to take his time and didn't want to worry about alarms or jobs the next morning. After chatting with Sam he decided to invite Y/N to get out of town for a couple of days, that way there shouldn't be any interruptions. Someplace where they could sleep separately if that's what she wanted.

Bucky stopped on his way there to get flowers, with a vase, and dinner. When he arrived at her building he walked around the block to try and calm himself. At 6:25 he went upstairs and knocked on her door.

Y/N had started daydreaming and jumped a little at the knocking at her door. She stood up and wiped the wrinkles from her dress and opened the door.

Bucky stood there with flowers, Chinese food and a big grin on his face.

"Hey doll"

"Hi Bucky" Y/N looked at him with a shy grin and welcomed him inside. He handed her the flowers and she laughed when she realized they came with a vase.

After he set the food on the table he pulled her into him for a hug, just enjoying the feel and scent of having her close to him. "I really did miss you" he murmured into her hair.

They heard a sound from the hall and pulled apart when Terri came out of her room in pajamas with a green face mask. "Don't mind me, I'm taking mine to go" she grabbed a plate of food and went back to her room.

Bucky laughed "She really is something else." And they sat at the table where Y/N had put out plates and napkins.

She nodded "You ain't seen nothin but yeah she's a good friend."

They sat to eat and it was quiet except for some blues on the stereo. They were both nervous, still plagued by thoughts of past rejections and heartbreak.

Once she had eaten enough to take the edge off of her hunger and finished her wine cooler, Y/N spoke up "How did your emergency with Sam go? Or is it one of those 'I could tell you but I'd have to kill you' situations?"

Bucky laughed "Don't worry doll I could never hurt you. Just some alien tech in the hands of some militia group. Seems like we'll never stop finding more."

She nodded "Now that people know that kind of stuff is out there you will always find more.

I didn't see all of the details but from what I did see you got some appreciation from the government among others. One woman seemed particularly interested in showing her appreciation." She teased

Bucky flinched "Yeah, I didn't even think about it until Sam sent me a link from tmz. She was one of the senators aides and didn't seem to understand the word no."

She smiled sadly at him "She's very pretty"

Bucky shrugged "If you say so. I only have eyes for one woman right now."

She felt her face heat up. "Anyone I know? Maybe I should let you go see her instead of wasting your time here."

He shook his head "Time with you isn't wasted. Honestly, I can't think of anything I'd rather do with my time. In fact I was wondering how you would feel about going away with me for a couple of days. I have a veterans charity thing Thursday nite so wanted to know if you would like to go with me, we could head out right after. Tony Stark had a house in the Hamptons and Pepper told me I could use it for a few days. It has a number of bedrooms so we don't have to share a bed unless you want to and it's right on the beach with space between neighbors so we'd have plenty of privacy." He looked at her hopefully.

She smiled at him. "I think I can take a couple of days off. Do I need a fancy dress or anything?"

Bucky got distracted thinking of her in a formal gown, something soft and silky without too many ruffles or frills.

"Bucky? You ok in there?" She asked softly

Bucky blushed and shook his head "What? Oh sorry, distracted myself for a minute. It's semi formal so kinda fancy. I'm wearing a suit. Sam will be there and Torres."

She looked confused "Torres?"

"Oh right you didn't actually meet him. Torres is the one who was pounding on my door last time I saw you. He's a good kid if annoying"

Y/N laughed "I'm pretty sure you find almost everyone annoying"

Bucky looked at her in feigned offense "That's not true! You aren't annoying at all. You make me crazy but in a good way." He paused to take her hand in his and kiss it. "If you need a dress I can give you Peppers number, I'm sure she knows all the best shops."

Y/N gulped "You mean Pepper Potts-Stark? I'm sure she has designers begging her to wear their clothes. I could never afford anything like what she wears but I'm sure I can find something acceptable by Thursday."

Bucky grinned hopefully "I can buy you a dress if you like. Wait. Does that mean yes? You'll go with me?"

She smirked "How could I ever say no to someone as adorable as you."

Bucky grumbled "I'm definitely not adorable but I'll let that slide since you said yes."

They sat and talked until almost midnight when she yawned "I'm sorry Buck but I need to get some sleep if I'm going to make it through work tomorrow. Don't want to be slacking before I ask for 2 days off."

Bucky helped her clean up the mess from dinner and kissed her goodnight. He had to force himself to leave after the goodnight kiss turned into another make out session and he started slowly rutting into her. He groaned as he pulled away. "You really are something, doll. I'll talk to you tomorrow."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tuesday after work Y/N and Terri went shopping for a dress. After trying on what felt like a hundred dresses they found one that Y/N liked and could afford. A purple off the shoulder vintage style tea length dress with lace accents. And shoes to match. Then a necklace and earrings with amethysts. She decided to wear the corset and stockings from their last big date. She had also scheduled a hair and nail appointment for Thursday afternoon.

When they got home she called Bucky "I found a dress. I hope you like it"

"You could wear a potato sack and I will still think you are gorgeous. It's late are you just getting home? Have you had anything to eat?"

Y/N laughed "Yes dad, we ate while we were out."

"Hey" he objected "I just want to make sure you're taking care of yourself. Can't have you getting sick before I get to show you off."

"Don't worry, I won't get sick"

Bucky sighed "Good because I hate these things but knowing you'll be on my arm makes it worthwhile"

"Doesn't helping veterans make a difference?"

"Yeah I just wish I could do it without having to go out and be nice to a bunch of rich jerks and politicians. Steve started it and now Sam is the honorary head of the charity but he insists that I go. It's usually one of the only nights I go out but after I meet whoever Sam decides I need to meet I always hang out with the old soldiers. This time they'll all be jealous because I'll have the prettiest girl by my side.

It's late doll, go get some rest and I'll talk to you tomorrow."

"Ok, G'nite James."

@lokisasgardianvampirequeen

"Nite Y/N"

Chapter 8

@jennyamanda8

@geeky-politics-46

@vicmc624

@jesuisbenny

@matchat3a

@silverfire475

@army24--7

[karolzupa]

The Crew Redesign Describtion

I transcripted the crew’s new look describtions since we don’t have Chip’s and Gillion’s offcial art (yet....? hopefully). I also added the rest of the crew so anyone can give it their own spin. Grizlly’s description is word for word, but with the rest of the boys I just wrote down the pointers. English is not my native tounge so be kind with my spelling!

Chip Redesign

Hair shoulder length, more tamed and fluffed out. You can see the earring poking out. Has chin stubble (a lil bit). On top of the head he’s got a red pirate hat with brown on the inside and some gold accents on it. He has a pirate coat, matches the hat. Mainly red but has gold and silver, brown on it, with belts and buttons on it. No shirt. Flame tattoos coming up his chest and up onto his neck. The coat goes all the way down, unbuttoned. Brown sash around it at the waist. A whole bunch of belts, knives and this type beat bullshit. Two short swords sheathed. Design is overall cluttered, with accents. Pants are black with gold trinkets coming off them, chains. Scars from “his trauma” are visible. “He wears it proudly”

Jay Ferin Redesign

White, cotton, square neckline top, with very short sleeves. On the back is clearly visible the feather tattoo from Alport. On the neck she has a double-layered, golden necklace. Has a leather, brown, below bust corset. It leads to her old jacket that is now tied around her waist. Underneath it is a little belt that is attached to the thigh pouch, that is also wrapped around her left thigh. She has black leather knee-highs that fit loosely around her upper calf, with black cotton going up. Ha fingerless gloves that buckle around and reach around her wrist a little bit. Her hair is down, no ponytail. Still has Ferin pin in her hair, but it's pushing her bangs of to the sides so they don't cover her face at all. 

Gillion Tidestrider Redesign

Layered armor, ridiculous shoulder pauldrons. Hair tied up in a manbun. He ditched the shell like armor and is opting for a more traditional fantasy armor look. More spiked, the shoulder pads are very exaggerated. Blue, black and gold, matching with the Destiny's Blade. The gauntlets are larger and chunkier and have a worrying energy (the helping hands flavor). The Destiny's Blade has side sheath attached to his armor, this gold and black, pretty but minimalistic sheath. The pearl fragment is sitting in the base into the swords, where the crescent moon symbol was. On the bottom of helping hands you can see shower heads spray nozzles. You see creeping out of the neck piece reddish lighting scarring. 

Ollie redesign

Ollie’s brown hair has come to grow quite long and untamed, and he now has it braided on both sides, intertwined with two red streaks. He’s wearing the eyepatch [...], flipping it up and down over his bright green eyes.His outfit is comfortable but fit for a young pirate. A black wool shirt with Chip’s old bandana tied around his arm and gold plated leather belt of Mount Giant Strength wrapped around his waist. He is wearing a red furline sleeveless vest, some dark striped pants and brown leather boots. He’s fucking adorable.

Alphonse redesign

Alphonse originally was made from some brass metal, but has received some nice chrome plating all around with gold accents. His face has been molded to resemble a skull, but he still sports that black handlebar mustache under those glowing yellow eyes. He wears a small white cowboy hat with the Riptide jolly roger on the front with goggles and gears resting on the brim. He wears a white collared shirt and black striped vest and a red bowtie with a clock as the brooch. The sleeves roll up to reveal black steel anchors affixed to both forearms, connected by a long chain that wraps around him through the leather harness around his chest. To finish it off, he is in some black leather chaps with a cog for the belt buckle and tall chrome cowboy boots with cogs as the spears. And if you look closely you can see, engraved on his forearm are the letters ALF-0NZ3.

Gryphon redesign

Gryphon has got some warrior braids in his swept back black and white hair. He’s wearing an open chest black blazer with green accents and a Riptide jolly roger printed on the side. He wears a few wire necklaces lined with bullet casing as well as two cross belts in the shape of an X with all of his specialized ammunition. This ends with another belt of bullets wrapped around the thigh over black cargo pants, ending in leather buckle combat boots. Over his shoulder there is a forest green cape with a little bit of fluff on the top, giving him the option to cover the massive six-barrel gun that replaces his left arm.

Drey Ferin redesign

He’s wearing all black, with a deep v neck pirate shirt and a long pirate captain’s coat with golden filigree and an accentuated collar. He’s wearing this deep blue scarf that's pinned by his old Ferin emblem. Matching that same color sash around his waist, just below an oversized belt. [...] custom-made arm slings and restrictors that function both as leather armor and a way to keep his arms from flopping all over the place.

[grandlinedreaming]

The beginning of an era

One piece x oc. Happens directly after Roger's execution

“I’m not following either o’ ya’”

She stood strong in front of the boys – no, the young men – she had grown up with. Both had wide eyes and agape mouth as Irene’s words sank in. They began to stutter and shout protests and arguments but, a single tear down her cheek, blackened by mascara, stopped the divided pair: “ We just lost cap’n. Executed in his hometown for the world ta see. You want to be pirates? Fine by me. Jus’, please, leave me out o’ it. None of us have bounties yet, Shanks, Buggy. Marines’ve thought o’ us as nothing more than crew and… I’ll take that advantage ta sail away and find maself a quiet island where I won’t be bothered.” “ But-“ “Bugs, she interrupted. I’m not interested in piracy anymore. I’ll be jus’ as free in a cabin on a hill, a workshop in a shed and playing with a dog or a cat. Be wild, build crews, become the powerful, great and glorious pirates ya wanna be. I’ll be tuning cogs and building metal things from ma imagination. And, who knows? Maybe one o’ youse’ll find ma little island, and we’ll laugh about the good old days and cry ‘bout what’s to come. ‘Till then, I’m leaving.”

The red-haired young man held back tears but smiled at the seventeen year old girl he had come to know as his sister. The red-nosed one didn’t hold back his as he looked Irene in the eyes. The three of them had fought back-to-back, protecting each other in Gold’s crew most of their childhoods, now they parted ways. It was sour in some minds, but sweeter towards her. They gave the late teenage Irene one last handshake: a last promise to remember each other in their prayers, and each left the alleyway, alone.

It felt odd to not have her crewmates follow her or her following them. They’d always been a trio: “the Roger brats” from Whitebeard, “the musketeers” from Gaban, “beauty and the beasts” from most the crew( beauty being Shanks as Buggy and herself tended to be bruised and dirty from all the tricks they attempted and devices they tried). When Buggy fell ill back when they finally had enough knowledge to travel to the last island, she was first to volunteer to stay back with him. Shanks only followed. She was glad for her and Crocus those days where the blue-haired boy coughed more than he breathed. She never wanted to hear about that island, though. That was the boy’s dream. She just wanted the knowledge to build her “mechas” that never failed to get stars up in the boys eyes.

She regretted never having told either of them how grateful she was to have met them.

Irene stepped unto a busy street: the sky was, as always, covered in clouds but it didn’t stop the stomping around, the pushes and yells everywhere she looked. Ever since her captain’s last words, which still echo in her head hours later, Loguetown had become almost lawless. People were ripping their hair out, shouting hurrahs, threats and everything in between, robbing stores in broad daylight, arguing, bargaining and settling affairs for new and old crews. Piracy overwhelmed the streets and she knew just how to avoid the mess. She drew her trench coat closed with its belt, concealing the large number of firearms, knives and grenades she had not only attached to her corset, but also created herself. Previously, her crewmates chuckled, calling her a ‘walking arsenal’, sometimes calling her the ship’s engineer or ‘crazy scientist’. Irene had tricks up her sleeves, literally.

Careful not to bump into anyone or bring attention to herself, she stuck to the edges of the streets, her bandolier bag away from the busy crowds. She spotted a familiar, smaller street which led downhill into a darker part of town. Her captain had brought the crew in a tavern somewhere down that road before. She noted the changed name of the bar when she stopped in front of it. Gold Roger. The only bar in all the world that could actually hold some merits to its claim of seeing the beginning of Gold’s Grand Line conquering. It all started here, with a drunk, idealist but optimistic captain.

The place was full. Crews, new and old, getting drunk off their ass before attempting to sail that sea, some buying barrels from the barkeep to keep drunk on their journey, others dancing on or around tables and a fight brewing in a corner. It was loud. It was bright. It was a pirate bar. She could hear Bink’s Sake played badly but coherently on an old violin, a few of the men present muttering the words through numbed mouths. She looked at the men and the few women that would soon sail away, none looked too promising but, nonetheless, she silently wished them calm seas and smooth sailing. The girl knew just how rough the journey and its enemies were, she didn’t wish that on anyone.

She made her way through the crowd, found an empty (how lucky!) table in a badly-lit corner, and sat facing the entire bar. She could see anyone coming in or out and she had an escape route planned if things were to go sour, although she couldn’t see how. She reached in her bag and clutched in her fingers a small toolkit and what looked like a copper and bronze cubic figurine. She placed both on the table and opened the kit, then, softly, passed her index on a specific place of the figurine. A small light, no bigger than an ember, glowed under her finger. She blinked and the cube was now big enough to have a child sit comfortably on it.

The cube had four wheels, two hinges where a line seemed to separate it at about the two thirds of its height and an adjustable metal cylinder which ended in glass on the front above the line. She then retrieved a controller from her bag no bigger than a rose petal. She repeated the process and, in an instant, it sat in her hands as if molded from them. She put both down on the table and began tuning some gears with her kit, she opened the top of the cube, revealing three foldable and retractable three-fingered ‘hands’. Don’t ask Irene to explain the things she creates and how, she knows how things work, but could never explain or teach. Most of it she attributes to those three.

“Thought you’d want to disappear quickly, Irene, said an older man’s voice.” She saw him approach from behind the bar, a glass and a water pitcher in hand. Raoul, the bar owner and keep. He sat down next to her and filled the glass which he handed her. “I know you don’t like alcohol so-

- Too young for it, she replied, her eyes never leaving the cogs she tuned. But I won’t say no ta some water from a good barkeep.

- So, not leaving yet?

- Tomorrow. There’s a few things I’ve gotta make sure of before I go. Somebody I gotta meet afterwards.”

The bar suddenly went quiet. Every voice silent, even the violin ended on another false note. She noticed him coming even before he entered, his sheer power alarming her observation haki. She knew who he was before she saw him and she knew he knew her. Monkey D Garp. The Fist. The Hero of the Navy. There was a few reasons she could see why he’d be here but, it wasn’t to arrest everyone present. He could, as powerful as he is, but to make sure everyone got jailed, he’d need a least a dozen officers with him.

A few seconds passed and, the frenzy began. Captains yelling to leave, to retreat, yells of hurt as the pirates trampled over one another heading for the door, the sound of feet stomping in a run. GoldRoger emptied in less than a minute and not one of the men and women got stopped by the vice-admiral. Tables and chairs were overturned, some broken and the violin lay, splintered and in pieces, on the floor in a puddle of beer.

The graying man turned towards her table, Raoul scowled. He’d chased away all his costumers for the next few days. Garp stopped in front of her table, blocking her view of the place. Dressed in basic marine all white, she compared him to some sort of snowman., making her laugh in her mind. From dark brown eyes, her eyes changed to a glowing gold as she looked up to the vice-admiral’s face. Her face had turned serious, her eyes dark even with the glow from her irises. Her voice suddenly changed, her accent gone and replaced by one more fluid: “What may I do for you, vice-admiral Garp?

- You’ve been communicating with your captain recently, Irene Bronzedock.

- My captain is dead, sir. You and I both watched his execution this morning.

- You didn’t answer my question. I could have you jailed for obstruction of Justice.

- Would you?” At this point, Raoul stood and left, heading to the back. “See, there’s something about you, sir, that Captain and the crew understood. You know real Justice. And you deliver your punishments justly. I have no bounty, I have never been known to be apart of any crew and, being seventeen presently, I would have been very young if i would have been part of anyone’s crew. How much credibility would people give the marines if they were to suddenly arrest a crying teenager for no apparent reason? Other than she was mistaken for a Gold pirate when truly she was a hostage?” silence held the room once more before Garp sat down in front of her. “ He told me.” Now it was her time to be silent. She squinted her eyes at the man. He was more than serious. He could be referencing many things but, most of what came up to her mind Roger would never have shared with anyone outside the crew.

- “ I’m afraid I have no idea what you are referencing to, sir. There are many things he could have told you. Many secrets only he could divulge.

- He sent you a letter, you should have received it before the execution. I know because I read it and sent it for him. He asked something out of you, but what he asked in the letter made no sense to me. Why would he ask you to look after the Oro Jackson if no one is using it anymore?

- He loved that ship. We all did. A ship becomes a home after you begin sailing in it, sir. If you weren’t aware, I took care of the repairs of the Jackson, even at my young age.”

Irene could tell the famed marine had enough of her excuses but could not find fail in them. Any question he would ask, she could play around, answering his question whilst being truthful but holding back. Cat and mouse. There was something urgent about whatever her captain had told Garp. If it had anything to do with what the letter had said, he would tell his superiors and not just her life would be in danger. “Tell me one thing about what you think you know, a single word will do it. In exchange, I will tell you one word, one key word about what my letter truly meant. How does that sound?

- Fair enough, he sat back in his chair and looked her straight in the eyes. My word is: child.”

That was all she needed to know. Roger had told Garp about his son. His innocent, pure unborn child. There was going to be a witch hunt from the marines if they were to become aware of his existence. What had her captain thought? Where was his mind? She knew if the vice-admiral was the one to find him and his mother, he would somehow keep the child safe. He knows justice and a newborn, no matter the parents, is innocent and has a clean slate. But Rayleigh and Shakky would have kept him just as safe! Why tell him? No, she knew why. His son would be right under the Navy’s nose and they wouldn’t have a clue, and Garp holds his promises tight.

It was her turn to sit back. She replaced her tools in the correct order before sighing. Her eyes’ golden glow being replaced by her normal chocolate gaze. Once more, her voice changed, this time to its original sounds: “Ma word’s: protection. Ya know what that means, right?

- I do, he assured.

- What did he want ya ta do? She sighed. Raise the tyke?

- No idea! He loudly laughed. But I promised to take care of him, that’s what I intend to do.

- Ya couldn’t take care of a pet rock.”

The Hero of the Navy roared in laughter in the empty bar, surprising Irene with a grin of her own. “I sail out tomorrow, Irene informed him. Can we strike a deal?

- Sure. Whadaya have in mind, Bronzedock?

- Don’t follow me and let me protect the tyke and the mother like I promised ma cap’n, and when time is near, I’ll contact ya and let ya leave with the newborn.”

Garp waited a moment. Seriousness back on his face, he considered arresting her for a moment for even suggesting it but, a marine entourage for one pregnant woman would arise questions. Soldiers’ll become nosy, the world government will try to infiltrate the guard and kill both just for being affiliated to Gold, not to mention he has seen what Bronzedock can do with her devices and runes: she’ll decimate his officers and run away with the mother if she believes that’s the only way to protect them. If that were to happen, he can say goodbye to any chance he might have of ever protecting and perhaps raising the child. They’ll disappear and never resurface. There really is only one choice : “Alright. You leave tomorrow. When the baby is close to being born you give me a call. I only have one condition.

- Name it.

- I need updates. The progress, the mother’s health and the kid’s.

- I think I can do that. Shake?”

They stood and shook hands over the only remaining standing table in the bar.

*

It rained bullets when she finally reached the bottom of the hill. A small house, barely big enough for two persons, sat atop it, a dirt path leading down towards the village. It was easy to miss it, truly, had she not been here before and known what she knew, Irene would have thought it abandoned. There was a rusty mailbox at the foot of the hill, leaning outwards from the small, almost overgrown path. She began her ascent, her western-looking hat braving the wind and her trench coat getting soaked by the rain, her clothes underneath escaping narrowly the same fate. Her boots sank in the mud, her feet slipping here or there, causing curses to be muttered under her breath.

Nerves and her don’t know each other to be in bad terms. The nerves before battles, when building certain mechas or those ones when she was sure of succeeding were well welcomed but, the ones she had as she stepped under the rotting wood of the small roof above the doorstep, those, she didn’t welcome. She’d been here before, true but, she was alone and scouting the place. Then she had had to repair the interior to become livable. She didn’t know why her captain needed that task done before a certain date but, now, with all that had happened and she had learned – the execution, his last wishes, his partner, Rouge’s pregnancy and the coming birth of their son – it made sense. The cabin was a perfect cover for protecting the soon-to-be mother and her unborn child. No one was going to come close to here and, if they did, Irene knew how to spook them away. Still, it didn’t change the fact she had never met the woman who caught the captain’s eye enough for him to want to settle.

She raised her hand and- the door opened. She was hurried inside by a figure, by what her haki was telling her, a friendly one. She stumbled on her feet and almost fell on the wooden floor. When she turned, a strawberry blonde woman was closing the door and turning multiple locks and chains, those Irene had installed previously. The woman sighed and looked behind her towards the younger girl. She realised in that instant who this woman was: Rouge. Long curly strawberry blonde hair, freckles over sun-tanned cheeks, beautiful brown eyes within sad eyes. Yeah. Irene understood now how Roger could have fallen for her. “He said he would send you, Rouge’s voice was soft and kind but no louder than a whisper. I just, expected someone…

- Burly? Muscly? Taller?”

She laughed, well, it was more of a giggle but, it counted as a laugh for the seventeen year old. She flushed at the sound. Something told her Gold had chosen her not just for her handyman and medicine skills. No way was she leaving Rouge’s side now. Especially now that the world government had started their witch hunt. Marines and agents were being deployed to any and all island her Captain had visited in, at most, the last nine months. Garp made his report, as she expected, and now the hunt began. She had already heard of pregnant women, almost at term, being jailed and/or having their babies stolen at birth just to be tested and returned weeks later, sick and feeble.

Of course, this hunt for the King of Pirates’ child would end up forgotten, erased by the government. Anyone who’ll ever ask what happened to the sudden search for soon-to-be mothers will be gaslit by the authorities to the point that even the participant officers will put it far away in the back of their minds. They just won’t make her forget.

Rouge sat down at the small round table and invited Irene to do the same. They sat a few moments in silence before both erupted at once. Questions were swirling in each mind for the other. They stopped, both with their mouth agape, before giggles took hold of them. Soon, a much needed laughter was heard in the small dining room. A creak in the ceiling stopped them, bringing Irene so quick to her feet, pistols in both hands and safety off, that her chair fell and slid a foot away. Her observation haki scoured the entire house and the surrounding field: only mice and small animals. Unless someone was able to hide from her haki – which she highly doubted – no one was around.

She hadn’t noticed Rouge’s hands reach and grab her coat, as she sheathed her guns, she touched the older woman’s arm. It took her by surprise, the fear and uncertainty on her freckled face. Then, she remembered: Rouge is currently the most wanted person in all the seas, hated for the man she loved, now deceased, and her child, her unborn son, is wanted dead by everyone aware of his existence but three persons; herself, Irene and one Monkey D. Garp. How could she forget? She needs protection, reassurance, safety, certainty, a guaranty her son and herself would be safe and sound here, in this one bedroom, one bathroom, house.

Irene squatted in front of her captain’s lover, removed her hat and placed it on the table then looked directly in her eyes. She grabbed Rouge’s hands and held them tightly: “There’s nothing ta worry, she affirmed. I promise ya, not one thing’ll come in here that I won’t save ya from. Somebody could offer me all the world’s berries for ya an’ him an’ I’d still choose ta protect ya.

- It’s not like you haven’t promised Roger or anything…

- Hey. Look at me. Ta hell with ma promise. I’m doing this out of ma own will. Yeah, I did agree ta watch over ya but, that could be just ta make sure ya stay alive. But I’m gonna not only watch over ya, but I’ll protect ya and make sure yer always good. Whatever ya need, ask and you’ll get.

- Irene…

- There’s just one thing. Alright? Right now, yer afraid. We can’t have that. Ya gotta be strong and brave the fears. We’ve got a long time in front of us where we’ll have ta watch our every move. I doubt the gov dogs’ll let go of their bone after just nine months. Mothers’re being taken from their homes, babies brought who-knows-where and pregnant women jailed just for their conception date coinciding with cap’n’s passin’ through.”

Something seemed to hit Rouge hard. Something she understood clearly. She nodded to the girl, she got it. A plan brewed in her head, if it was possible remained to see but, she would need to try. At 10 weeks she still didn’t show and, with the right clothes, she could potentially hide the pregnancy longer. Irene stood and let go of her hands, bringing the blonde out of her planning. The girl looked around and spotted a few locations on the walls and doorways which she would later score and etch runes into. For now, she needed to plan better for their safety.

That’s when her eyes begin to glow a bright cyan blue. Rouge was taken aback by the sudden change in not only Irene’s eyes, but also, seemingly, her whole personality, mannerisms and voice. When questioned, later in the evening, the girl would explain to the best of abilities: when she was but an infant, her parents unknowingly fed her a devil fruit. The soul-soul fruit, model: alternative lives. She explained to her new roommate that she had access to the knowledge and life experience of as many as three other souls. As much as she could make out of these people she chose and linked herself to as a baby, they came from very different backgrounds and, as insane as it sounded, she wasn’t certain they even came from the same world.

Weeks later, she would answer a few more questions from her when Rouge felt on the brink of disaster. She introduced Selma, a trauma surgeon with a prosthetic leg. Selma had these bright blue eyes, a short afro she kept under a scrub cap almost permanently but braided with bright colors when she had a day off (which didn’t happen often) and dark skin. From her came the cyan glow in her eyes when she needed to know medical things or be more compassionate and caring. She also gave her the ability to perform surgeries and give medical care. Irene was rough around the edges and could be harsh when she shouldn’t be, Selma helped her be softer.

Later, she would talk about the Eel, or rather, Lee Yeung. Rouge had been watching off the horizon, anxiety creeping into her mind as her bump began to show more. At 37 weeks in, they both knew it would be soon. To bring her thoughts away from the worry, Irene brought up the big bad Eel. Lee had hazel eyes, almost gold, that seemed to bewitch the women and scare the men. He kept his hair shaven on the sides but in a long, black ponytail on the top. Only his personal hairstylist (a friend he made in law school, whatever that was) could attempt to touch and suggest changes to it. He kept his body fit and never ate more than what he needed and only ever in private. Lee was called the Eel because whilst it was a good pun on his name (he never said so, but Lee appreciated the occasional pun), it also fit with the fact he never got caught by the authorities for his extensive list of crimes. As the leader of a vast underground system of organized crime, he always seemed to slink between the fingers of justice. He slid between obstacles the same way an eel would. She got the golden eyes from him along with his cleverness and his ruthlessness.

When Irene understood Rouge’s plan to fight the contractions and keep her son inside as long as she could, even if it meant her death, just so he could be born safe from the hunters outside, she told her of the last soul. She told her of the love story of Asimu, the assassin, to keep her mind away from some of the pain. As they held hands, she began. Asimu, or Assassin Sent to Infiltrate Military Unit, was some sort of super soldier. An underground scientist cell modified his brain and DNA for him to be stronger, faster and smarter than the average soldier whilst also retaining total obedience. He also had been given a photographic memory, give him a sheet of info and he’ll have it completely memorised in a blink. He was rented by factions to infiltrate other factions and kill targets. That was his purpose. He had green eyes, was bald but, he had a scar the shape of a circle and taking half his head in area. The scientists kept him clean-shaven and didn’t let him get out of a single session of training, which he didn’t even think of doing.

One day, a woman with big, cat-eye glasses rented him. She didn’t want an assassin, she wanted a bodyguard. It was unusual, but a deal was struck nonetheless. The woman had uncovered an old alphabet, ancient in fact. It held great power and should only be used in emergencies, she believed. Factions wanted it and wanted her to write it for them. Wars could be fought and won because of it. Countless could die. She would talk to Asimu like he could respond, as if they were in conversation, but he would only stare. She shared her thoughts out loud and studied her runes, her alphabet, with him at her back.

One day, Asimu responded with a grunt to one of her question. Asimu lacked vocal chords. Or so she was told. She prompted him again and again and, eventually, the two held a conversation. A basic conversation but, a conversation. Asimu wasn’t supposed to be sentient. If he wasn’t, now he was. He began to feel emotions. He broke down and she was there. He never left her side after that.

Irene got glowing green eyes, plenty of fighting and killing techniques, a good memory for faces and names, and , finally, an alphabet of powerful runes activated by the writer’s body heat from Asimu. How the runes work, she couldn’t explain better than that.

*

Garp was a week away, she heard. His famed ship with the bulldog figurehead was spotted an island away. Irene had written and sent the updates he had asked for and time for him to come around was near. 86 weeks. 20 months. That’s how long Rouge had been strong and brave for. She wrote the location.

*

A roar shook the house to its foundations. The now eighteen year old had found a midwife weeks prior but, only brought her tonight. She stayed outside, despite the old woman’s asking for her to stay and hold Rouge’s hand. The two had become good friends in the year or so they had stayed together, neither wanted to see the end of this. They both knew the toll of keeping the pregnancy alive for so long had been. He would be born, but she would die soon after. Irene refused to see her take her last breaths and her son take his firsts.

She had to be honest with herself; she found some comfort in Rouge. Yes, they became friends, she could trust her with pretty much everything and they both leaned on the other’s shoulders during storms, both outside and inside their heads. She realized now, as tears ruined her mascara and eyeliner but she refused her sobs, that she had fallen down a well. She had thrown too many berries in it, wishing for a different outcome to all this horrifying debacle and now, she found herself in the wishing well’s water, the bucket out of reach. She fell and hit her head, fantasies of raising a child on this hill with a woman who only saw her as a friend and confidant filled her dreams for weeks, different scenarios but always the same concept: Rouge survived, Garp allowed them to live here, hiding her son’s existence, her captain and her friend’s child grew safe and sound in a semi-normal household and she got to live out the quiet life she wished for.

Another yell. None of that would happen. She could see the marine ship through the heavy rain and the night’s darkness. He’d be here soon. She wasn’t one to wince at things but every yell brought out a cringe out of Irene. She couldn’t even begin to understand the pain her friend was in. She resisted the urge to get her rifle and aim at Garp’s head when she saw him at the foot of the hill: she could end him now, freeze Rouge in place with a few well-chosen runes, perform a caesarean, stitch her closed and get on the run with both of them. She could- no. No, she couldn’t. Not that she can’t, but, the two women had explored the possibilities extensively; Rouge wanted things to happen naturally, for one and, Irene understood the complications that could happen in the surgery and, contrary to Selma’s workplace, she lacked every instrument needed to perform surgery safely. Muddy footsteps brought her out of her thoughts

Garp stood in front her, a serious expression plastered on his scared face. She had leaned on the door and blocked the passage. The yelling had stopped, an eerie silence amongst the pitter patter of raindrops hitting the roof and window shutters. Irene held her breath, so did the older man. They only relaxed when a high-pitched cry cut the air. The baby was breathing, he was born and he was breathing. Garp motioned to open the door but the young woman stood her ground. She drew a pistol and placed the end of the barrel under the vice-admiral’s chin: “Ya give her a few minutes, she growled from deep in her throat. If she’s losing as much blood as I estimated in ma updates, she’s got seven minutes and a half. Now six. Let her say goodbye properly an’ hold her boy.”

The marine was silent but still, he nodded in agreement. Together, they sat in uncomfortable silence for the next five minutes. When only a minute was left, Irene stepped away from the door and let him in. He returned a few moments later with a baby in his arms, still crying. He already had a tuft of dark hair and she could tell by the minuscule spots on his face he shared Rouge’s freckles. Another tear fell down her left cheek. “Godmother, Irene stated in a shaky voice. Rouge… asked me to be godmother. I- I told her I’d be terrible at it but, she-

- I can update you.”

The girl nodded, hiding her eyes under her cowboy hat. She refused to know the boy’s name. She had a burial to prepare.